"That you 've had a secret two whole months
and never told me about it yet? And I 'm
your best friend!"

"I was waiting till you came to the city,
Janet. I wanted to tell you; I did n't want to
write it."

"Well, I 've been in the city twelve hours,
and you never said a word about it till just
now."

"But, Janet, we 've been sight-seeing ever
since you arrived. You can't very well tell
secrets when you 're sight-seeing, you know!"

"Well, you might have given me a hint about
it long ago. You know we 've solemnly promised never to have any secrets from each other,
and yet you 've had one two whole months!"

"No, Jan, I have n't had it quite as long as
that. Honest! It did n't begin till quite a
while after I came; in fact, not till about three
or four weeks ago."

"Tell me all about it right away, then, and
perhaps I 'll forgive you!"

The two girls cuddled up close to each other
on the low couch by the open window and
lowered their voices to a whisper. Through
the warm darkness of the June night came the
hum of a great city, a subdued, murmurous
sound, strangely unfamiliar to one of the girls,
who was in the city for the first time in all her
country life. To the other the sound had some
time since become an accustomed one. As
they leaned their elbows on the sill and, chins
in hand, stared out into the darkness, Marcia
began:

"Well, Jan, I might as well commence at
the beginning, so you 'll understand how it all
happened. I 've been just crazy to tell you,
but I 'm not good at letter-writing, and there 's
such a lot to explain that I thought I 'd wait
till your visit.

"You know, when we first moved to this
apartment, last April, from 'way back in
Northam, I was all excitement for a while just
to be living in the city. Everything was so
different. Really, I acted so silly – you
would n't believe it! I used to run down to
the front door half a dozen times a day, just to
push the bell and see the door open all by itself!
It seemed like something in a fairy-story.
And for the longest while I could n't get used
to the dumb-waiter or the steam-heat or the
electric lights, and all that sort of thing. It is
awfully different from our old-fashioned little
Northam – now is n't it?"

"Yes, I feel just that way this minute," admitted Janet.

"And then, too," went on Marcia, "there
were all the things outside to do and see – the
trolleys and stores and parks and museums and
the zoo! Aunt Minerva said I went around
'like a distracted chicken' for a while! And
beside that, we used to have the greatest fun
shopping for new furniture and things for this
apartment. Hardly a bit of that big old
furniture we brought with us would fit into it,
these rooms are so much smaller than the ones
in our old farm-house.

"Well, anyhow, for a while I was too busy
and interested and excited to think of another
thing –

"Yes, too busy to even write to me!" interrupted Janet. "I had about one letter in two
weeks from you, those days. And you 'd
promised to write every other day!"

"Oh well, never mind that now! You 'd
have done the same, I guess. If you don't let
me go on, I 'll never get to the secret! After
a while, though, I got used to all the new things,
and I 'd seen all the sights, and Aunt Minerva
had finished all the furnishing except the curtains and draperies (she 's at that, yet!), and
all of a sudden everything fell flat. I had n't
begun my music-lessons, and there did n't seem
to be a thing to do, or a single interest in life.

"The truth is, Jan, I was frightfully lonesome – for you!" Here Marcia felt her hand
squeezed in the darkness. "Perhaps you don't
realize it, but living in an apartment in a big
city is the queerest thing! You don't know
your neighbor that lives right across the hall.
You don't know a soul in the house. And as
far as I can see, you 're not likely to if you lived
here fifty years! Nobody calls on you as they
do on a new family in the country. Nobody
seems to care a rap who you are, or whether
you live or die, or anything. And would you
believe it, Janet, there is n't another girl in this
whole apartment, either older or younger than
myself! No one but grown-ups.

"So you can see how awfully lonesome I 've
been. And as Aunt Minerva had decided not
to send me to high school till fall, I did n't have
a chance to get acquainted with any one of my
own age. Actually, it got so I did n't do
much else but moon around and mark off the
days till school in Northam closed and you
could come. And, oh, I 'm so glad you 're here
for the summer! Is n't it gorgeous!" She
hugged her chum spasmodically.

"But to go on. I 'm telling you all this so
you can see what led up to my doing what I did
about – the secret. It began one awfully rainy
afternoon last month. I 'd been for a walk in
the wet, just for exercise, and when I came in,
Aunt Minerva was out shopping. I had n't a
new book to read nor a blessed thing to do, so
I sat down right here by the window and got
to thinking and wondering why things were so
unevenly divided – why you, Jan, should have
a mother and father and a big, jolly lot of
brothers and sisters, and I should be just one,
all alone, living with Aunt Minerva (though
she 's lovely to me), with no mother, and a
father away nearly all the time on his ship.

"And it seemed as if I just hated this apartment, with its little rooms, like cubbyholes, all
in a row. I longed to be back in Northam.
And looking out of the window, I even thought
I 'd give anything to live in that big, rambling,
dingy, old place next door, beyond the brick
wall, for at least one could go up and down
stairs to the different rooms.

"And then, if you 'll believe me, Jan, as I
stared at that house it began to dawn on me
that I 'd never really 'taken it in' before – that
it was a very strange-looking old place. And
because I did n't have another mortal thing to
do, I just sat and stared at it as if I 'd never
seen it before, and began to wonder and wonder
about it. For there were a number of things
about it that seemed decidedly queer."

"What 's it like, anyway?" questioned Janet.
"There were so many other things to see to-day
that I did n't notice it at all. And it 's so dark
now I can't see a thing."

"Why, it 's a big, square, four-story brick
house, and it 's terribly in need of paint.
Looks as if it had n't had a coat in years and
years. It stands 'way back from the street, in
a sort of ragged, weedy garden, and there 's a
high brick wall around the whole place, except
for a heavy wooden gate at the front covered
with ironwork. That gate is always closed.
A stone walk runs from the gate to the front
door. 'Way back at the rear of the garden is
an old brick stable that looks as if it had n't
been opened or used in years.

"You ll see all this yourself, Janet, when
you look out of the window in the morning.
For this apartment-house runs along close to
the brick wall, and as we 're three floors up, you
get a good view of the whole place. This
window in my room is the very best place of all
to see it – fortunately.

"But the queer thing about it is that, though
the shutters are all tightly closed or bowed, – every one! – and the whole place looks deserted,
it really is n't! There 's some one living in it;
and once in a long while you happen to see signs
of it. For instance, that very afternoon I saw
this: 'most all the shutters are tightly closed,
but on the second floor they are usually just
bowed. And that day the slats in one of them
were open, and I thought I could see a muslin
curtain flapping behind it. But while I was
looking, the fingers of a hand suddenly appeared between the slats and snapped them
shut with a jerk.

"Of course, there 's nothing so awfully
strange about a thing like that, as a rule, but
somehow the way it was done seemed mysterious. I can't explain just why. Anyhow, as
I had n't anything else to do, I concluded I 'd
sit there for a while longer and see if something
else would happen. But nothing did – not for
nearly an hour; and I was getting tired of the
thing and just going to get up and go away
when – "

"What?" breathed Janet, in an excited
whisper.

"The big front door opened (it was nearly
dark by that time) and out crept the queerest
little figure! It appeared to be a little old
woman all dressed in dingy black clothes that
looked as if they must have come out of the
ark, they were so old-fashioned! Her hat was
a queer little bonnet, with no trimming except
a heavy black veil that came down over her
face. She had a small market-basket on her
arm, and a big old umbrella.

"But the queerest thing was the way she
scuttled down the path to the gate, like a
frightened rabbit, turning her head from side
to side, as if she was afraid of being seen or
watched. When she got to the gate, she had
to put down her basket and umbrella and use
both hands to unlock it with a huge key.
When she got outside of it, on the street, she
shut the gate behind her, and of course I
could n't see her any more.

"Well, it set me to wondering and wondering what the story of that queer old house and
queer little old lady could be. It seemed as if
there must be some story about it, or some explanation; for, you see, it 's a big place, and
evidently at one time must have been very
handsome. And it stands right here in one of
the busiest and most valuable parts of the city.

"The more I thought of it, the more curious
I grew. But the worst of it was that I did n't
know a soul who could tell me the least thing
about it. Aunt Minerva could n't, of course,
and I was n't acquainted with another person
in the city. It just seemed as if I must find
some explanation. Then, all of a sudden, I
thought of our new colored maid. Perhaps
she might have heard something about it. I
made up my mind I 'd go right out to the
kitchen. So I went and started her talking
about things in general and finally asked her
if she knew anything about that old house.
And then – I wish you could have heard her!
I can't tell it all the way she did, but this is the
substance of it:

"It seems that she 's discovered that the janitor here is the son of an old friend from North
Carolina. Of course she 's been talking to him
a lot, and he has told her all about the whole
neighborhood, and especially about the queer
old house next door. He says it 's known all
around here as 'Benedict's Folly.' "

"Why?" queried Janet.

"Well, because years and years ago, when
the owner built it (his name was Benedict), it
was 'way out of the city limits, and everybody
thought he was awfully foolish, going so far,
and building a handsome city house off in the
wilderness. But he was n't so foolish after all,
for the city came right up and surrounded him
in the end, and the property is worth no end of
money now.

"But here 's the queer thing about it. Old
Mr. Benedict 's been dead many years, and the
place looks as if no one lived there – but some
one does! It 's a daughter of his, a queer little
old lady, who keeps herself shut up there all
the time; some think she 's alone, others say no,
that some one else is there with her. No one
seems to know definitely. Anyhow, although
she is very wealthy, she does all the work herself, and the marketing; and she even carries
home all the things, and won't allow a single
one of the tradesmen to come in.

"Mr. Simmonds (that 's our janitor) says
that two years ago, in the winter, a water-pipe
there burst, and Miss Benedict just had to get
a plumber; and he afterward told awfully
peculiar things about the way the house looked,
– the furniture all draped and covered up, and
even the pictures on the walls covered, too, –
and not a single modern improvement except
the running water and some old-fashioned gas-fixtures. And the little old lady never raised
her veil while he was there, so he could n't see
what she looked like.

"Mr. Simmonds says every one thinks there
is some great mystery about 'Benedict's Folly,'
but no one seems to be able to guess what it can
be. Now, Janet, is n't that just fascinating?
Think of living next door to a mystery!"

"It 's simply thrilling!" sighed Janet. "But,
Marcia, I still don't see what this has to do with
a secret. Where do you come in? I don't see
why you could n't have written all this to
me."

"Wait!" said Marcia. "I have n't finished
yet. That was absolutely all I could get out
of our maid Eliza, all she or any one else knew,
in fact. But as you can imagine, I could n't
get the thing out of my mind, and I could n't
stop looking at the old place, either. I tried to
talk to Aunt Minerva about it, but she was n't
a bit interested. Said she could n't understand
how any one could keep house in that slovenly
fashion, and that 's all she would say. So I
gave up trying to interest her.

"Now, I must tell you the odd thing that
happened that very night. You know I 've
said it was raining hard all that day, and by
ten o'clock the wind was blowing a gale. I
was just ready for bed, and had turned off my
light and raised the shade, when I thought I 'd
take another peep at my mysterious mansion
across the fence. All I could see, however,
were just some streaks of light through the
chinks in the shutters in that one room on the
second floor. All the rest of the place was as
dark as a pocket. And as I sat staring out, it
suddenly came to me what fun it would be to
try to unravel the whole mysterious affair all
by myself. It would certainly help me to pass
the dull days till you came!

"But then, too, the only way to do it would
be to watch this old place like a cat, and I knew
that would n't be right. It would be too much
like spying into your neighbor's affairs, and, of
course, that 's horrid. Finally, I concluded,
that if I could do it without being meddlesome
or prying, I 'd just watch the place a little and
see if anything interesting would happen.
And while I was thinking this, a strange thing
did happen – that very minute!

"The wind had grown terrific, and, all of a
sudden, it just took one of the shutters of that
lighted room, and ripped it from its fastening,
and threw it back against the wall. And the
next moment a figure hurried to the window,
leaned out, and drew the shutter back in place
again. But just for one instant I had caught
a glimpse of the whole inside of the room!
And what do you suppose I saw, Jan?"

"What?" demanded Janet.

"Well, not much of the furnishing, except a
lighted oil-lamp on a table. But, directly in
the center of the room, in a perfectly enormous
armchair sat – a woman! And it was n't the
one I 'd seen in the afternoon, either. I 'm
sure of that. I could n't see her face, for it
was in shadow, but she was looking down at
something spread out on her lap. And she
held her right hand over it in the air and waved
it back and forth, sort of uncertainly. You
can't imagine what a strange picture it was – and then the shutter was closed. There was
something so weird about it all.

"If I was curious before, I was simply wild
with interest then. It seemed as if I must
know what it all meant – what that strange old
lady could be doing, sitting there in state in the
middle of the room, and all the rest of it. You
don't blame me, do you, Jan?"

"Indeed I don't! I 'd be ten times worse, I
guess. But what about the secret? And did
you find out anything else?"

"Yes, I did. And that 's the secret. The
whole mysterious thing is in the secret, because
no one but you knows I 'm the least interested
in the affair, and I don't want them to – now!
I 'll tell you what happened next."

But just at this moment they were interrupted by a knock at the door, and a voice
inquiring:

"Girls, girls! have n't you gone to bed yet?
I 've heard you talking for the last hour."

"No, Aunt Minerva!" answered Marcia, "we
are sitting by the window."

"Well, you must go to bed at once! It 's
nearly midnight. You won't either of you be
fit for a thing to-morrow. Now, mind, not
another Word! Good-night!"

"Good-night!" they both answered, but
heaved a sigh when Aunt Minerva was out of
hearing.

"It 's no use!" whispered Marcia. "We 'll
have to stop for to-night. But there 's lots
more, and the most interesting part of it, too.
Well, never mind, I 'll tell you all the rest
to-morrow!"

CHAPTER II
THE FACE BEHIND THE SHUTTER

JANET had no sooner hopped out of bed
next morning than she flew to the window
to examine "Benedict's Folly" by broad daylight. In the streaming sun of a June morning the dingy old mansion certainly bore out
the truth of Marcia's mysterious description.

"Gracious! I should think you would have
been interested in it from the first!" she exclaimed.

"Interested in what?" yawned Marcia, sleepily, opening her eyes.

"'Benedict's Folly,' of course! Let 's see,"
went on Janet, who possessed a very practical,
orderly mind; "from your story last night it
seems there must be two people living there – but look here! how did you know, Marcia, that
it was another old lady you saw that night
when the shutter blew open?"

"Why, for several reasons," answered Marcia. "In the first place, the one who goes out is
short and slight. The one sitting in the chair
was evidently large, and rather stout, and –
and different, somehow, although I did n't see
either of their faces. And then, it was n't the
lady in the chair who closed the shutter. She
evidently never moved. So it must have been
some one else."

"Yes, it must have been," agreed Janet, convinced. "Queer that nobody seems to know
about the second one. I wonder who she is?
And are there any more? Go on with your
story, Marcia."

"No," said Marcia. "Wait till we can be by
ourselves for a long while. I don't want to be
interrupted. Aunt Minerva 's going out this
morning, and then we 'll have a chance."

So, later in the morning, the two girls sat
by Marcia's window, each occupied with a
dainty bit of embroidery, and Marcia began
anew:

"Well, after that rainy night, for several
days I did n't see a thing more that was
interesting about the old house or the queer
people who live in it. I used to watch once in
a while to see if the little lady in black would
go out again in the afternoon, as she did before,
but she did n't. Then, a day or two later, I
did something that surprised even myself, for
I had n't the faintest intention of doing it. I
had been taking a walk that afternoon and was
just coming home, passing on the way the high
brick wall of the Benedict house. It was just
as I reached the closed gate that an idea
popped into my head.

"You know, they say that no visitors are ever
admitted, and no rings or knocks at the gate
are ever answered. Well, something suddenly
prompted me to ring that bell and see what
would happen. I never stopped to ask myself
what I should say if some one came and inquired what I wanted. I just rang it suddenly (and I had to pull hard, the old thing
was so rusty) and far away somewhere in the
house I heard a faint tinkle.

"Then I got kind of panic-stricken, wondering what I 'd say if any one did really come.
But I need n't have worried, for what do you
suppose happened?"

"Nothing!" answered Janet, promptly.

"That 's just where you 're mistaken; but
you 'd never guess what it was. About a minute after I 'd rung the bell, I heard light footsteps on the walk behind the gate. But,
instead of coming toward the gate, they were
hurrying away from it; and in another minute
I heard the front door close. After that it was
all quiet, and nothing else happened. Then I
went on home."

"I know," interrupted Janet, whose quick
mind had already worked out the problem,
"exactly what occurred. It was Miss Benedict, who had been just about to come out on
her way to do the marketing. And your ring
frightened her, and sent her hurrying back into
the house. Is n't it all singular!"

"Yes, that must have been it," agreed
Marcia. "And it made me more curious than
ever to understand about it. And I was so
annoyed at myself for ringing at all. If I
had n't, I might have seen Miss Benedict close
by, when she came out of the gate. It served
me right for doing such a thing, anyhow!

"But after that I got to watching, every time
I went out, thinking I might see her on the
street somewhere, especially if it was about the
time she usually did her marketing – along
toward dusk. Several days passed, however,
and I never did. I had thought of watching
from my window to see when she went out, and
then following her. But that did n't seem
right, somehow. It would be too much like
spying on her. So I just concluded I 'd trust
to chance. And luck favored me at last, one
morning, about a week after I 'd rung her
bell.

"It happened that the night before, Eliza
suddenly discovered we were all out of oatmeal
for breakfast, and I promised her I 'd get some
very early in the morning, when I went to take
my walk. You know, I 've found that on
these warm summer days in the city it 's much
pleasanter to take a walk in the real early
morning than to wait till later in the day, when
it 's crowded and hot. And I always used to
love walking in the early morning, up in
Northam.

"Well, anyhow, I got up that day about
six. I knew that no stores near here would be
open so early, and I decided to walk over
toward the other side of town. It 's a sort of
poor section there, and the stores often open
up quite early, so that folks can do their marketing before they go to work. It was a
beautiful, cool morning, and I was quite enjoying myself when – Jan, what do you think? – I
looked up, and about half a block ahead of me
was a little black figure with a market-basket,
hurrying along. I knew it was Miss Benedict!

"Can you imagine my surprise – and delight?
I suddenly made up my mind I 'd keep behind
her, and go into the same store she did. There
could surely be no harm in that! And by and
by I saw her turn into a little grocery-shop;
and a minute or two after in I walked, went to
the counter, and stood right near her. There
was no one in the store beside ourselves and
the grocer. He looked sleepy, and was yawning while he wrapped up something for her.
He asked me to 'Wait a minute, please!' which,
of course, I was only too delighted to do, as it
gave me a perfect right to stand close by my
mysterious little neighbor and hear her speak.

"And it was right there, Janet, that I got
the surprise of my life. She still wore her
black veil, and it was so thick that not a bit of
her face could be seen. Her dress was the
most old-fashioned thing – it looked twenty
years old, if not more. I don't know what
sort of a voice I had expected to hear, but it
was nothing in the least like what I did hear.

"I can't exactly describe it to you, Jan, but
it was the most beautiful speaking voice I 've
ever heard in my life! It was soft, and flute-like, and so – so appealing! It somehow went
straight to my heart. It made me feel as if I
wanted to take care of Miss Benedict, somehow, I can't exactly explain it. Even when
she was speaking of such commonplace things
as butter and eggs and sugar, it was like – like
music!

"Well, in a few moments she had finished,
and the grocer packed her things in her basket,
and she went away. I had to stay, of course,
and get my oatmeal, and I did n't see her
again. But being so close to her and hearing
that lovely voice had changed my whole feeling
about her. At first, I had just been interested
and awfully curious about the whole mysterious
affair, and, I 'll confess, just a wee bit repelled
by the account of the queer little lady and the
strange way she lived. I wanted to know the
explanation of the mystery, but I did n't particularly want to know her. But after that, I
felt different, – sort of bewitched by that beautiful voice. I wanted to help that Miss Benedict. I wanted to do something for her, or try to make her happier, or – or something, I
could n't quite explain what. And I wanted
– oh, so much! – to see her face, and know
what she was like, and more about herself.
Can you understand, Jan?"

"Indeed, I can. But do go on. Did you
ever meet her again?"

"No, I did n't. But I 've seen – and heard
– something else that 's strange, more strange
than all the rest!"

"Tell me, quick!" demanded Janet.

"Two nights ago, I sat here by the window.
It was too hot to turn on the light, but it was
very dark outside. Presently I heard footsteps in the Benedict garden. They were
light, quick footsteps, and sounded exactly as
if some one were running about, or skipping
and jumping. First I thought it must be a
big dog, for it could n't possibly have been
either one of those two old ladies, running and
skipping that way! And then I heard a soft
humming, as if some one were singing a tune
half under the breath. And then, very soon
after, a door opened, and a voice called out,
very softly, 'Come in, now!' And after that
all was quiet. Now, Janet McNeil, I 'm
simply positive there 's some one else in that
house beside the two old ladies, – some one who
has n't been seen yet. What do you make of
it?"

"You must be right," replied Janet, thoughtfully. "It could n't be either of them running
about in the garden in the dark and humming
a tune. It is n't at all what they 'd be likely
to do. I think it must be some one else, more
– more human and natural, somehow. And
younger, too. But what on earth do they all
keep so shut up for, and act as if they were
afraid to be seen! It 's the queerest thing I
ever heard of. You certainly have moved next
door to a 'dark-brown mystery,' Marcia!"

For the ensuing hour the girls embroidered
steadily and discussed "Benedict's Folly" and
its inmates in all their peculiar phases. But,
turn and twist it as they might, they could
find no answer to the riddle. After a while,
Janet changed the subject.

"By the way, Marcia, how are you coming
on with your violin practice? Have you begun
taking lessons here yet? You know that was
one of the principal things you folks moved
to the city for, – so that you could study with
the best teachers."

"Yes, I 've begun with Professor Hardwick," said Marcia, "and I 've practised quite
hard lately. It 's about all I had to do. He
says I 've made some progress already."

"Oh, do get your violin and play some for
me!" begged Janet. "I 'm just starving for
some good music. I have n't heard any since
you left Northam."

So Marcia obligingly went to the parlor and
brought back her violin. When she had tuned
it and tucked it lovingly under her chin, she sat
down in the window-seat and ran her bow over
the strings in a shower of liquid melody. For
one so young she played astonishingly well.
Janet listened, breathless, absorbed.

"Marcia dear, you have improved!" she exclaimed, as her chum stopped for a moment. "Now do play my favorite!" Marcia laid her
bow on the strings once more, and slipped into
the tender reverie of the "Träumerei." But
before it was half finished, Janet, wide-eyed
with astonishment, laid her hand on Marcia's
arm.

"Look!" she breathed. Marcia followed
the direction of her gaze, and turned to stare
out of the window at the house opposite. And
this is what she saw:

The shutter of a window on the top floor
had been pushed partly open, and a face looked
out, – a face with big, appealing eyes, and a
frame of golden, curling hair falling all about
it. Straight over at the two in the Window it
gazed, eager, absorbed, delighted. And then
suddenly, as it detected their own interested
stare, it withdrew, and the shutter was softly
closed.

The two girls drew a long breath and gazed
at each other.

"Janet, – what did I tell you! There is
some one else in that house!" cried Marcia.

"I guess you 're right!" admitted Janet,
quieter, but no less excited. "But do you realize who that third person is, Marcia Brett?
It is n't an old lady; it 's some one just about
our own age – it 's a young girl!"

CHAPTER III
THE GATE OPENS

FOR the two ensuing days, Marcia and
Janet, tense with excitement, discussed
the most recently discovered inmate of "Benedict's Folly," and watched incessantly for another glimpse of the face behind the shutter.
How was it, they constantly demanded of each
other, that a girl of fourteen or fifteen had come
to be shut up in the dreary old place? Was
she a prisoner there? Was she a relative,
friend, or servant? Was she free to come and
go?

To the latter question they unanimously
voted "No!" How could she be aught else but
a prisoner when she was never seen going in
or out, was forced to take her exercise after
nightfall in the dark garden, and was kept constantly behind closed shutters? No girl of
that age in her right mind could deliberately
choose a life like that!

"Do you suppose she has always lived
there?" queried Marcia, for the twentieth
time. And as Janet could answer it no better than herself, she propounded another question:

"And why do you suppose she opened the
shutter and looked out, seeming so delighted,
when I played, and then drew in again so
quickly when we noticed her? Is she afraid
of being seen, too?"

"Evidently," said Janet. "She must be as
full of mystery as the rest of them. And yet
– I can't, somehow, feel that she is like them;
she 's so sweet and young and – oh, you know
what I mean!"

Of course she knew, but it did n't help them
in the least to solve this latest phase of their
mystery. Finally Marcia, who still clung a bit
shyly to the fairy lore of her earlier years, declared:

"I believe she 's a regular Cinderella, kept
there to do all the hard work of the place by
those queer old ladies, and I should n't be a
bit surprised if she 's down in the kitchen this
minute, cleaning out the ashes of the stove!
Come, Jan, let 's go for a walk, and when we
come back I 'll play on the violin by the window. Maybe our little Cinderella will peep
out again!"

The two girls put on their hats and strolled
out for their usual afternoon walk and treat of
ice-cream soda. But they had gone no farther
from their own door than the length of the
Benedict brick wall when they were suddenly
brought to a halt in front of the closed gate
by hearing a sound on the other side of it. It
was a sound indicative of some one's struggling
attempt to open it – the click of a key turning
and turning in the lock and the futile rattling
of the iron knob. And then the sound of a
voice murmuring:

"Oh, dear! What shall I do? I can't get
this open!"

"Janet," whispered Marcia, "that 's not the
voice of Miss Benedict! I know it! I believe
it 's Cinderella, and she 's trying to run away!
What shall we do – stay here?"

"No," Janet whispered back. "Let 's just
stroll on a little way, and then turn back. We
can see what happens then without seeming to
be watching."

They walked on quickly for a number of
yards, and then turned to approach the gate
again. Even as they did so they saw it open,
and out stepped a little figure.

It was not Miss Benedict! The slim, trim
little girlish form was clad in plain dark
clothes of a slightly unfamiliar cut. But the
face was the one that had appeared in the upper window, and the thick golden curls were
surmounted by a black velvet tam-o'-shanter.
On her arm she carried a small market-basket,
and her eyes had a bewildered, almost frightened, look.

In their excited interest Marcia and Janet
had, quite unconsciously, stopped short where
they were and waited to see which way their
Cinderella would turn. But though they stood
so for an appreciable moment, she turned
neither way, and only stood, her back to the
gate, gazing uncertainly to the right and left.
And then, perceiving them, she seemed to take
a sudden resolution, and turned to them appealingly.

"Oh, please, could you direct me how to find
this?" she asked, holding out a slip of paper.
Marcia hurried to her side and read the written
address. And when she had read it, she realized that it was the little grocery-shop on the
other side of town where she had once encountered Miss Benedict.

"Why, certainly!" she cried. "You walk
over five blocks in that direction, then turn to
your left and down three. You can't miss it;
it 's right next to a shoemaker's place."

The child looked more bewildered than ever,
and her eyes strayed to the busy street-crossing near which they stood, crowded with hurrying trucks and automobiles.

"Thank you!" she faltered. "Do I go this
way?" And then, with sudden candor, "You
see, I 'm strange in these streets." Her voice
was clear and pretty, but her accent markedly
un-American. Both girls half consciously
noted it.

"See here," said Marcia; "would you care
to have us take you there? We 're not going
in any special direction, and I 've been there
before."

An infinitely relieved expression came over
the girl's face. "Ch, would you be so kind?
I 'm just – just scared to death on these
streets!"

They turned to accompany her, one on each
side, and piloted her safely across the busy
avenue. Then, in the quiet stretch of the next
block, they proceeded together in complete and
embarrassing silence.

It was a silence that Marcia and Janet had
fully expected their companion to break – possibly to reveal some reason for her errand and
her strangeness in the streets. They themselves hesitated to say much, for fear of seeming curious or anxious to force her confidence.
But she said not a word. The strain at last
became too much for Janet.

"I don't blame you for feeling nervous in
these city streets," she began. "I 'm a country girl myself, and I act like a scared rabbit
whenever I go out alone here." The girl
turned to her with a little confiding gesture.

"I 've never been out in them alone before,"
she said. Then there was another silence during which Marcia and Janet both searched
frantically in their minds for something else
to say. But it was the girl herself who broke
the silence the second time.

"Thank you for your music the other day,"
she said, turning to Marcia. "I heard you. I
often hear you and listen."

"Oh, I 'm so glad you liked it!" cried Marcia. "Do you care for music?"

"I adore it," she replied simply.

"Look here!" exclaimed Marcia, suddenly;
"how did you know it was I that played the
violin?"

"Because I 've watched you often – through
the slats!"

Marcia and Janet exchanged glances. So
the watching was not all on their side of the
fence! Here was a revelation!

"That last thing you played the other day –
will you – will you tell me what it was?" went
on their new companion, shyly.

"Yes but I never heard it before; that is, I
never remember hearing it, and yet – somehow
I seemed to know it. I can't think why. I
don't understand. It 's as if I 'd dreamed it,
I think."

Marcia and Janet again exchanged glances.
What a strange child this was, who talked of
having "dreamed" music that was quite familiar
to almost every one.

"Perhaps you heard it at a concert," suggested Janet.

"I never went to a concert," she replied,
much to their amazement. And then, perceiving their surprise, she added:

"You see, I 've always lived 'way off' in the
country, in just a little village – till now."

"Oh – yes," answered Janet, pretending enlightenment, though in truth she and Marcia
were more bewildered than ever.

But by this time they had reached the little
grocery-shop, and all proceeded inside while
their new friend made her purchases. These
she read off slowly from a slip of paper, and
the grocer packed them in her basket. But
when it came to paying for them and making
change, she became entangled in a fresh puzzle.

"I think you said these eggs were a shilling?"
she ventured to the grocer.

"Shilling – no! I said they were a quarter,"
he retorted impatiently.

"A quarter?" she queried, and turned questioning eyes to her two friends.

"He means this," said Marcia, picking out a
twenty-five-cent piece from the change the girl
held.

"Oh, thank you! I don't understand this
American money," she explained. And Marcia and Janet added another query to their
rapidly growing mental list.

On the way back home, however, she grew
silent again, and though the girls chatted back
and forth about quite impersonal matters, –
the crowded streets, the warm weather, the
sights they passed, – she was not to be drawn
into the conversation. And the nearer they
drew to their destination, the more depressed
she appeared to become. At last they reached
the gate.

"Shall you be going out again to-morrow?"
ventured Marcia. " If so, we will go with you,
if you care to have us, till you get used to the
streets."

The girl gave her a sudden, pleased glance.
"I – I don't know," she said. "You see, Miss
Benedict hurt her ankle a day or two ago, and
she can't get around much, so – so I 'm doing
this for her. If she wants me to go to-morrow,
I will. I 'd be so glad to go with you. How
shall I let you know?"

"Just hang a white handkerchief to your
shutter before you go, and we'll see it. We 'll
watch for it!" cried Marcia, inventing the
signal on the spur of the moment. And then,
impetuously, she added:

"My name is Marcia Brett, and this is Janet
McNeil. Won't you tell us yours, if we 're to
be friends?"

"I 'm Cecily Marlowe," she answered, "and
I 'm so glad to know you." As she spoke she
was fumbling with the big key in the lock of the
gate, and as the latter swung open, she turned
once more to face them, with a little pent-up
sob: "I don't know why I 'm here – and I 'm
so lonely!" Then, frightened at having revealed so much, she turned quickly away and
shut the gate.

As they listened to her footsteps retreating
up the path and the closing of the front door
Marcia and Janet turned to each other, a thousand questions burning on their tongues. But
all they could exclaim in one breath was:

"Did you ever!"

CHAPTER IV
THE BACKWARD GLANCE

THE next twenty-four hours were spent in
delightful speculation. So her name was
Cecily Marlowe! Was she any relation of
Miss Benedict? "Marlowe" and "Benedict"
were certainly dissimilar enough.

"But then she might be a relation on Miss
Benedict's mother's side," suggested Marcia.

"Does it sound likely when you think what
she said just at the last – that she did n't know
why she was there?" replied Janet, scornfully.
"She could n't be in doubt about it if she were
a relation, either come on a visit or there to
stay!" Which argument settled that question.

"But where do you suppose she has come
from?" marveled Marcia. "She said she 'd always lived in a little country village, and she
did n't know a thing about American money.
She 's foreign – that 's certain. Even her
clothes and her way of speaking show it. But
from where?"

"Did you notice that she said 'shilling'?"
suggested Janet. "That shows she must be
English. She looks English. Now will you
tell me how she could get 'way over here from
England and not know why she had come?"

"It sounds as if she might have been kidnapped," said Marcia. "Why, Janet! this is
precisely like a mystery in a book. Do you
realize it? And here we are living right next
door to it! It 's too good to be true!"

Janet's mind had, however, gone off on another tack. "I can't understand that remark
she made about the music. 'Träumerei' is certainly about as well known as any piece of
classic music. She said she never remembered
hearing it, and yet it seems somehow familiar
to her. Can you make anything out of that?"

Marcia could n't. "Maybe it 's all just a notion," she suggested helplessly. "Suppose I
play some on the violin here in our window
right now. She seems to enjoy it so. And
maybe she 'll open her shutter again."

So they sat on the window-seat, and Marcia
played her very best, including the "Träumerei," but no golden head appeared from behind the shutter that afternoon.

"But is n't she the prettiest little thing!" mused Marcia, reminiscently. "The loveliest
big blue eyes, and curly golden hair, and such
a trusting look in her face, somehow! It went
right down to the very bottom of my heart, if it
does n't sound silly to put it that way."

"Yes, I know," agreed Janet. "I felt the
same way. But does n't it strike you queer
that – "

"Oh, the whole thing 's queer!" interrupted
Marcia. "The queerest I ever heard of. I
guess you agree with me now, Janet, that I had
a secret worth talking about in 'Benedict's
Folly.' But let 's wait till to-morrow and see
what happens."

The morrow came and went, however, and
nothing happened at all. Hour after hour the
two girls watched for the signal of the white
handkerchief, but every shuttered window of
the old mansion remained blank. Neither did
any one go in or out of the gate. Late in the
afternoon Marcia played again at the window,
but the sweetest music called forth not a single
sign from behind the walls of the house next
door. Janet had but one solution to offer.

"They probably did n't need any marketing
done to-day, so she naturally did n't go out."

"But why could n't she have at least looked
out a moment from her window?" cried Marcia,
disconsolately. "Surely that would have been
easy to do, when she said she cared so much for
the music. She must have known I was playing just for her!"

"She may have been somewhere in the house
where she could n't. You can't tell, and
ought n't to blame her without knowing," declared Janet, defending the conduct of the
mysterious Cecily. "To-morrow we 'll see her
again, no doubt."

On the morrow her prophecy was fulfilled.
They did see her again, but under circumstances so peculiar that they were quite dumfounded.
All the morning they watched and waited in
vain for some signal from the upper window.
But none came. And the main part of the
afternoon passed in precisely the same way.
They sat very conspicuously in their own window-seat, so that there could be no doubt in
Cecily's mind about their being at home. Marcia even did a little violin practice while they
waited. And still there was no sign. Suddenly, about five o'clock, Janet clutched at her
chum's arm.

"Look!" she cried.

Marcia looked, and down the path from the
front door of the strange house she saw Cecily,
dressed to go out, approaching the gate. It
was plain that she was bound on another marketing expedition for the basket hung from her
arm.

"Well! what do you make of that!" exclaimed Marcia in bewilderment. "Did she
signal to us?"

"No, she did n't," returned Janet. "I 've
watched every minute. She could n't have forgotten it. But, do you know, there may be
some very good reason why she did n't – or
could n't – and perhaps she 's hoping we 'll see
her, and be on hand outside, anyway, as we
promised."

"But she must have seen us sitting in the
window," argued Marcia. "She might at least
have looked up and waved her hand, or nodded, or smiled – or something!"

Cecily, meanwhile, was fumbling with the
lock of the big old gate, which seemed, as on a
former occasion, to give her a great deal of
trouble.

"Come," cried Janet to Marcia. "We 'll
just about have time to catch her if we hurry."
And seizing their hats, the girls hastened
downstairs. Their front door closed behind
them just as Cecily came abreast of them.
What happened next was like a blow in the
face!

They had started forward, each with a
friendly smile, expecting their new companion
to meet them in similar fashion. To their
amazement, Cecily Marlowe, after the first
sudden look into their faces, dropped her eyes,
and passed them by without a glance, precisely
as if they were utter strangers to her.

Cecily Marlowe passed them by without a look

Both girls gasped, stared at her departing
figure till she turned the corner, and then into
each other's faces.

"The ungrateful little thing!" Marcia presently exploded. "If that was n't the 'cut direct,' I 've never seen it before!"

"An unmistakable way of telling us to mind
our own business!" even Janet had to admit.
"How humiliating! And yet – "

"Yet – what?" demanded Marcia, indignantly. "You 're surely not going to try to
excuse such inexcusable conduct as that! I
see very plainly what 's happened. She 's
thought it over and decided that we were meddlesome and just trying to push an acquaintance with her, and she thinks she 's a little too
exclusive for that kind of thing, and the simple
remedy was to 'cut us dead'!" Marcia was
quite out of breath when she finished this summing up.

"It does look like it," Janet admitted. "But somehow, even yet, I can't feel that she
wanted to do it – of her own accord, I mean."

But Marcia could n't see it in that light.
They discussed the question hotly, still standing on the front stoop of the apartment. So
long, in fact, did they argue it back and forth,
turning and twisting the sorry little occurrence, viewing it in every possible light, that
before they realized it, Cecily was returning,
her errands accomplished. How she had managed to find her way and cross the streets in
safety, they could only conjecture.

To reach her own gate, she had to pass directly by where they were standing, and they
saw her approaching down the block.

"Here she comes," muttered Marcia. "Now, let 's stand right here and watch her as
she goes by. She can't help but see us.
We 'll give her one more chance to do the
proper thing."

And so they waited, breathless, expectant,
while the girl came rapidly on, her eyes cast
down, watching the pavement. But even
when she was quite in front of them, she did
not once look up, and without comment their
gaze followed her retreating figure to the gate.

As she fitted the big key and swung the gate
open, they were just about to turn to each
other in angry impatience when something else
happened.

Cecily Marlowe turned her head and looked
back at them for one long, tense moment. It
was such a wistful, imploring look, a gaze so
full of appeal for forgiveness, so plainly in contrast with her recent conduct, that their hearts
melted at once.

Simultaneously they waved their hands and
smiled at her, and she smiled back in return, the
most adorable little smile in the world, full of
trust and confidence and utter friendliness.

Then she hurried in and closed the gate, leaving her two new friends outside more bewildered than ever.

CHAPTER V
THE HANDKERCHIEF IN THE WINDOW

THE next day was spent by the two girls
in an expedition to one of the near-by
ocean beaches with Aunt Minerva. Under
ordinary circumstances it was a treat that
would have delighted their hearts. But, as
matters stood, they only chafed with impatience
to be back at their bedroom window, watching
the house next door. The date for the trip,
however, had been set some time before, and
Aunt Minerva would have thought it very
strange if they had begged off, for such flimsy
reason as they could have offered.

The day after found them again on watch,
though what they expected to see they could n't
have told. It was plain that, in spite of
appearances, Cecily Marlowe's friendly feeling
toward them was undiminished. The charming backward smile had indicated that unmistakably. But how to make it fit in with her
refusal to signal and her forbidding conduct
they could not understand, and the mystery kept them in a constant ferment of surmise.

But even as they sat discussing it next morning, their fancy-work lying unheeded in their
laps, they looked out suddenly with a simultaneous gasp of astonishment and delight. There was a tiny white handkerchief attached
to the shutter in the upper window and fluttering in the breeze!

"It 's the signal – our signal!" cried Marcia.
"Now what shall we do? – show that we 've seen
it by waving something? Here 's my red silk
scarf."

"No," decided Janet. "Perhaps she 'd
rather not have us do anything that might
attract attention. Let 's go right down to the
street, as we said we would, and see if she 's
there."

They lost not a moment's time in reaching
their front steps. But there was no sign of
Cecily till they had come abreast of the Benedict gate. This they discovered ajar, and two
blue eyes peeping out of a narrow crack. As
they came in sight, there was a smothered
exclamation, "Oh! I 'm so glad!" The gate
opened wider, and Cecily stood before them.

"You are so good!" she began at once, in a
low voice, stretching out both hands to them.
"I was afraid you – you would n't come. I
left the signal there almost all day yesterday – "

"We were away!" cried Marcia, promptly.
"I 'm so sorry. We went – "

"Oh, then – oh, it 's all right!" breathed
Cecily, in relief. "I was sure you were angry
at – at the way – I acted."

It was on the tip of Marcia's tongue to
demand why she had acted so, but she refrained. And Cecily hurried on:

"I – I just had to signal for you. I – we
are in great trouble – and I don't know what to
do."

"Oh, what is it?" cried both girls together.

"Miss – Miss Benedict is very ill," she continued hesitatingly. "She – she fell and hurt her ankle the other day, and – it 's been getting
worse ever since. She 's in bed – suffering
great pain both yesterday and to-day. It 's
terribly swelled – "

"But why does n't she send for a doctor?"
interrupted Janet, hastily. "She ought to
have one if it 's as bad as that."

"I asked her that, too, yesterday, and she
only said: 'No, no! I cannot, must not have
a doctor, child!' And when I asked what I
could do for her, she answered, 'I don't know,
I 'm sure!' So there she lies – just suffering.
And – and I could n't think of anything else
to do, so I signaled to you. You are my only
friends – in all this city!"

There was something infinitely pathetic
about the way she brought out this last statement. It touched the hearts of both her
listeners, and because of it they inwardly forgave her, once and for all, for any action of
hers that had offended them. And they had
the good sense not to comment on the strangeness of Miss Benedict's behavior.

"Well, if she won't have a doctor, we must
think what else there is to be done, began
Janet, practically.

"I wish you 'd let me bring Aunt Minerva
in to see her," said Marcia. "She hurt her
ankle just like that, two years ago, and she 'd
know exactly what – "

"Oh, no, no!" cried Cecily, starting forward. "Miss Benedict would not want that – does not
want to see any one. Please – please do not
even mention to your aunt anything about her
– or me! Miss Benedict would not wish it."

The request was certainly very peculiar, but
the girls were able to conceal their surprise,
great as it was. "Very well," said Marcia,
soothingly. "If you 'd rather have it that way,
we certainly won't speak of it. But I 've just
had another idea. I remember Aunt Minerva
had a certain kind of salve that she used for her
ankle, and she kept it tightly bandaged on. It
did her lots of good – cured her, in fact. Now
I believe I could get that salve at a drug-store
here – "

"Oh, could you?" exclaimed Cecily, in immense relief. "Let us go at once."

"But you need n't trouble to go," said Marcia. "We won't be ten minutes and will come
right back with it."

"I prefer to go," replied Cecily Marlowe,
with such an air of quiet finality that neither
dared to question it. All three started out,
after Cecily had locked the gate, and proceeded
to the nearest drug-store. Here Marcia made
the purchase, and paid for it from the change
in her own hand-bag. But when they were
outside the store Cecily turned to her gravely:

"I have a little English money of my own,
but I did not like to offer it in the shop. If
you will – will tell me how much the salve cost
– in shillings – I will give it to you." And she
held out several English shillings to Marcia.

"Oh, you need n't do that! I 'm glad to be
able to think of something to do for Miss Benedict. It 's such a little matter – "

"Please!" reiterated Cecily. "I wish to tell
her I bought it myself."

"Why?" cried Marcia, and then the next
moment wished she could recall a question that
seemed to border on the personal.

"Because I – I dare not tell her I have –
have been talking to you!" hesitated Cecily, in
an unusual burst of candor. And after that
revelation they all walked back to the gate in
an uneasy silence.

When they stood again in front of the blank
barrier to the mysterious house, Cecily turned
to Marcia.

"I love your music," she said. "I always
listen to it whenever you play. I knew you
had been playing – just for me – these last few
days, and I wanted to look out of my window
and – and wave to you, but – I must not. I
am always there when you play – listening. I
wanted you to know it."

"Oh, I 'm so glad!" cried Marcia, delightedly. "I hoped it would please you. I 'll
play more than ever now. I 'll do all my practising there, too."

"Cecily," said Janet, abruptly, venturing on
personal ground for the first time, "you are
very lonely there, in that big house, with no
other young folks, are n't you?"

"Yes," answered Cecily, speaking very low,
and glancing in an uncertain way at the gate.

"Well, why don't you ask – er – Miss Benedict, if you could n't run in and visit us once in
a while, or go out for a walk with us sometimes?
Surely she would n't object to that."

"Oh, no, no!" cried Cecily, hastily. "I 'd
– oh, how I 'd love to, but – but – it would n't
do, – it would n't be allowed! No, I must
not." There was nothing more to be said.

"Yes," said Cecily, "I 'll do that." She got
out the key, and unlocked the gate. Then she
faced them with a sudden, passionate sob.

"You are so wonderfully good to me! I
love you – both! You 're all I have to – care
for!"

Then the gate was shut, and they heard her
footsteps fleeing up the pathway.

CHAPTER VI
CECILY REVEALS HERSELF

THAT night the two girls held a council
of war.

"It 's perfectly plain to me," said Marcia,
"that that poor little thing is right under Miss
Benedict's thumb. I think the way she 's
treated is scandalous – not allowed to go out,
or speak to, or associate with, any one! And
scared out of her wits all the time, evidently.
What on earth is she there for, anyhow?"

Janet scorned to reply to the old, unanswerable question. Instead she remarked:

"She 's breaking her heart about it, too. I
can see that. And, Marcia, was n't it strange
– what she said just at the last – that she loved
us, and that we were all she had to care for!
Where can all her relatives and family be?
Miss Benedict certainly can't be a relative, for
Cecily calls her 'Miss.' To think of that lovely
little thing without a soul to care for her –
except ourselves. Why, Marcia, it 's – it 's
amazing! But the main question now is what
are we going to do about it? We must help
her somehow!"

"I know what I 'm going to do about it,"
replied Marcia, decisively. "I 'm going to tell
Aunt Minerva about it, and see if she can't – "

"Wait a minute," Janet reminded her.
"You forget that Cecily fairly begged us not
to mention anything about her to any one."

"That 's so," said Marcia, looking blank.
"What are we going to do then?"

"There 's only one thing I can think of,"
answered Janet, slowly. "Miss Benedict may
forbid Cecily to meet or speak to us, but she
can't forbid us meeting and speaking to Cecily,
can she? So why can't we just watch for
Cecily to come out, and then go and join her?
She can't stop us – she can't help herself; and
between you and me, I think she 'll be only too
delighted!"

"Good enough!" laughed Marcia. "But
what an ogre that Miss Benedict must be!
I 'm horribly disappointed about her. After
I heard her speak that time I was sure she must
be lovely. It does n't seem possible that any
one with such a wonderful, sympathetic voice
could be so – so downright hateful to a dear
little thing like Cecily."

"I must say it seems just horrid!" cried
Janet, vehemently.

That night, after darkness had fallen, the
two girls, settling themselves without a light
at their open window, heard, as Marcia had
once before described, the sound of running
feet in the garden beyond the wall. This time
there was no doubt in their minds about it. It
was certainly Cecily, taking a little exercise,
probably on the deserted path.

"I wonder why she runs," marveled Marcia. "I should n't feel like running around there all
by myself."

"I think I can understand, though," added
Janet. "She 's cooped up all day in that
dreary old place, and probably has to keep
awfully quiet. I 'd go crazy if I were shut in
like that. I 'd feel like – like jumping hurdles
when I got out of doors. And she 's a country
girl, too, remember. Get your violin, Marcia,
and play something. I know it will comfort
her to know we 're near by and thinking of
her."

So Marcia brought her violin, and out into
the darkness of the night floated the dreamy,
tender melody of the "Träumerei." The
romance of the situation appealed to her, and
she played it as she never had before.

At the first notes the running footsteps
ceased, and there was silence in the garden.
When the music ended, they thought they
could distinguish a soft little sound, half sigh,
half sob, from the velvet blackness below; but
they could not be sure. And a little later came
the click of a closing door.

Marcia put down her violin. "The lonely,
lonely little thing!" she exclaimed, half under
her breath.

For two days thereafter they maintained a
constant, but fruitless, vigil over "Benedict's
Folly." Cecily did not appear, either at her
window or on a marketing expedition. Neither
was there any sound of her footsteps in the
garden at night.

The girls began to worry. Could it be that
Miss Benedict had discovered the truth about
the remedy for her sprained ankle and had,
perhaps, shut Cecily up in close confinement,
or even sent her away altogether? They were
by this time at a loss as to just what to think
of that mysterious lady.

On the third afternoon, however, to their
intense relief, they saw Cecily emerge from the
house and walk toward the gate, with the market-basket on her arm. It took them just
about a minute and a half to reach the street.

Cecily came abreast of their own door-step
in due time, her eyes cast down as usual; but
they were waiting in the vestibule, and she did
not see them.

She was well in advance, but still in sight,
when they came down the steps and strolled
in the same direction. It was not till they had
turned the corner that they raced after her, and
at last, breathless, caught up with her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a little start; "I –
I did not expect to see you to-day. I – you
must n't come with me!" In spite of her
words, however, it was evident that she was
really delighted by their unexpected appearance.

"Look here, Cecily," began Marcia, "why
can't we join you when you go to market or
are doing your errands?"

"Oh, that would be lovely!" answered Cecily
– "only Miss Benedict usually asks me when
I come in whether I have met or spoken
to any one, and – I can't tell what is n't
true!"

Here was a poser! The girls looked crestfallen.

"No – you can't, of course," hesitated Janet.

"And besides that," went on Cecily, "this is
the last time I shall go, anyhow, because she 's
very much better now, – the salve helped her
ankle very much, – and she says she 's going
out herself after this. I don't expect to get
out again."

There was a moment of horrified silence after
this blow. Then Janet, no longer able to
endure the bewilderment, burst out:

"Cecily dear, please forgive us if we seem
to be prying into your affairs. It 's only
because we think so much of you. But who is
Miss Benedict, and what is she to you?"

"I don't know!" said Cecily slowly.

"You don't know!" they gasped in chorus.

"No, I really don't. It must seem very
strange to you, and it does to me. Miss Benedict is a perfect stranger to me, and no relation,
so far as I know. I never saw or heard of her
before I came here."

"But why are you here then?" demanded
Marcia.

"I – don't know. It 's all a mystery to me.
But I 'm so lonely I 've cried myself to sleep
many a night."

"Won't you tell us all about it?" begged
Marcia. "We 're your friends, Cecily, – you
say the only ones you have, – and we don't ask
just out of curiosity, but because we 're interested in you, and – and love you."

"Well, I will then," agreed the girl, as they
walked along. "I 'll just tell you how it all
happened. Ever since I can remember anything, I 've lived in Cranby, a little village in
England. Mother and I lived there together.
We never went anywhere, not even up to London, because she was never very strong.
Father was dead; he died when I was a tiny
baby, she told me. We just had a happy, quiet
life together, we two.

"Well, about the beginning of this year,
Mother was suddenly taken very, very ill. I
don't know what was the matter, but I hardly
had time to call in a neighbor and then bring
the doctor." Cecily paused and choked down
a rising sob.

"She – she just slipped away before we knew
it," she went on, very low. Marcia pressed her
hand in wordless sympathy. Presently Cecily
continued:

"Afterward, the neighbor, Mrs. Waddington, told me that while I was fetching the
doctor Mother had begged her to see that, if
she did n't recover, I should be taken over to
New York, and left with a family named Benedict, and she had Mrs. Waddington write down
the address. But just then Mother grew so
much worse that she could n't explain why I
was to be taken there, or what they were to
me or I to them. After it was all over we
searched everywhere, hoping to find some
papers or letters or something that would tell,
but we found nothing. So Mrs. Waddington
kept me with her for two or three months.
Then a friend of hers, a Mrs. Bidwell, was
going to the States, and it was arranged that
I should go in her care. About two weeks before we sailed Mrs. Bidwell wrote to the Benedict family, saying she was bringing me to
New York.

"So we sailed from Liverpool, and the very
day we landed, Mrs. Bidwell brought me here.
We rang the old bell at the gate, and then
waited and waited. I thought no one would
ever come. But at last the gate opened, and
Miss Benedict stood there in her hat and veil.

"She acted very strangely from the first.
Mrs. Bidwell told her all about me, and she
never said a single word, but only shook her
head several times. I thought she was certainly going to refuse to take me in, her manner was so odd. After she had stood thinking
a long time she suddenly said to me, 'Come,
then!' and to Mrs. Bidwell, 'I thank you!'
And she led me inside, followed by the driver
with my box, and shut the gate." Cecily
stopped short, as if that were the end of the
story.

"Oh, but – go on!" stammered Marcia, quivering with impatience.

"But I must do my marketing now," said
Cecily. "Here we are at the shop. I 'll tell
you the rest when we come out."

CHAPTER VII
SURPRISES ALL AROUND

"HOW long have you been in New York?"
began Janet, when at last they emerged
from the little shop.

"About two months," said Cecily. "And
I 've lived in that place all this time, and have
not known why. Miss Benedict has never
explained. She acts toward me as if I were a
lodger, or – or some one she allowed to stay
there for reasons of her own, but did n't particularly want to have about. She 's kind to
me, but never – friendly. Sometimes she looks
at me in the strangest way – I can't imagine
what she 's thinking about. But why does she
live like this?" and she turned inquiring eyes
on the girls.

"I 'm sure we don't know!" exclaimed Marcia. "We only wonder about it. The house
seems to be all shut up."

"Why, it is!" Cecily enlightened them. "And it makes it so dark and gloomy! There is lovely furniture in the drawing-room, but it
is all covered over with some brown stuff – even
the pictures. And most of the other rooms are
not used at all – nothing on the ground floor.
I eat down in the basement, and my bedroom
is on the top floor – where I looked out that
time. I have never been in any of the other
bedrooms except Miss' Benedict's, when her
ankle was bad."

"But what do you do with yourself all day?"
asked Janet.

"I keep my room in order, and help Miss
Benedict whenever she lets me. Of course, she
prepares all the food herself, but in such a
pretty, dainty way. But there are a good
many hours when the time hangs so heavy on
my hands. Sometimes she lets me dust the
rooms on the ground floor. She keeps everything very, very neat, even if it is all covered
up and never used. The rest of the time I
sit in my room and read the few books I
brought with me, and tell myself long stories,
or listen to your music. I dare not now even
peep through the shutters. Once I opened
them, when you were playing, but Miss Benedict came in just then and forbade me to do it
again."

"Does n't she ever let you go out and take a
walk or get a little exercise?" questioned
Marcia.

"No, the only times I have gone out have
been just lately, when her ankle has been so
bad. At night, after it is dark, she lets me
run about the garden a bit, but never in the
daytime."

"But how did she find out about your knowing us?" broke in Janet.

"Why, of course I told her – that first time
after you were so good to me – all about meeting you, and how lovely you were to me. I
thought she 'd be so glad I 'd found such nice
friends. But she looked so queer – almost
frightened, and she said: 'You must not speak
to them again. It was kind of them to help
you, but you must not encourage them in any
way. Remember, child!' And I was only
trying to obey her when I passed you without looking up the second time I went
out."

"Cecily," said Marcia, suddenly, "what does
Miss Benedict look like, anyhow? Do you
ever see her without that veil? Is n't she very
old and plain?"

"Why, no," answered Cecily, simply. "She 's very beautiful."

"What!" they gasped in chorus.

"Yes, I was surprised too, that day I came.
After the driver had brought my box into the
hall (she would n't let him take it any farther),
and she had shut the door behind him and we
were left alone, she seemed to – to hesitate, but
at last she raised her hands and took off her
bonnet and veil. I don't know what I expected, but I was surprised to see such a lovely
face. Her hair is gray, almost white, and so
soft and wavy. And yet she has rosy cheeks,
and white teeth, and the most beautiful big
gray eyes. And her voice is very sweet, too.
Do you know, I believe if she 'd only let me, I
could just love her, but she holds me off as if
she were somehow afraid of me. It 's all very
strange."

The girls were completely nonplussed by this
latest bit of information, and found it hard to
couple Cecily's attractive picture with the little
black-robed and veiled figure that they knew
as Miss Benedict. The voice alone tallied, and
Marcia recounted how she had once met Miss
Benedict in the little grocery-shop. Suddenly,
however, she was struck by a new thought, and
demanded:

"But how about the other one?"

Cecily opened her eyes wide. "Other one?"
she queried. "Oh, you mean the other person
in the house?"

"Why, yes," said Marcia. "The other old
lady who sits in the room on the second floor."

"Oh, is it an old lady?" inquired Cecily, in
surprise.

"Why, of course! Did n't you know it?"
exclaimed Marcia.

"I knew there was some one in there – some
invalid. For Miss Benedict has always
warned me to be very quiet in going by that
door, because some one was ill in there. But
she never told me who it was, nor anything
more about her. She always waits on her herself. Even when her ankle was hurting her so,
she would drag herself out of bed many times a
day to go into that room. But tell me, how
did you know there was an old lady in there?"

Then Marcia recounted what she had seen
on the night the wind tore open the shutter.
"How strange this all is," she ended, "that Miss
Benedict should never tell you who this person
is! Why do you suppose she is keeping it a
secret?"

As this was a problem none of them could
solve, they could only conjecture vainly about
it as they walked along. But by this time they
had approached within a block of the house
itself, and before they turned the corner once
more they all unconsciously halted.

"Cecily," said Marcia, suddenly inspired
with a bright idea. "I have the grandest
scheme! If Miss Benedict is going to do the
marketing after this, perhaps we won't see you
again for some time. But I 've a plan by
which we can hear from each other as often as
we like. You take a walk in the garden every
night, don't you?"

"No, not always," answered Cecily. "Miss
Benedict allows me to, but often I don't care
to. It 's so dark and – and lonesome."

"Well, after this, be sure to go out every
night. Our window, you know, is directly over
the garden wall, only three stories up. I 'm
going to have a long string with a weight
attached to it, and fasten it in the window.
Every night, after dark, we 'll write a note to
you, fasten it to the string, and drop it down
into the garden among the bushes. You can
find it in the dark by feeling for the string, and
if you have one written to us, you can fasten
it on, and we 'll pull it up. Is n't that a dandy
idea?"

Cecily's eyes sparkled for a moment, but
suddenly her face clouded. "Oh, it – it would
be glorious!" she murmured. "Only – I must
not. Even if Miss Benedict does n't know
about it, I know she would forbid it if she did.
So – it would be wrong for me to do it!"

"Oh, Cecily! why should you care?" cried
Marcia, impatiently. "And why should she
object to three girls sending little notes to one
another? It would be cruel to forbid that. It
is n't really wrong, you know."

"But she is n't cruel to me," Cecily interrupted. "You must n't think that. She – well, somehow, I feel she would be nice to me,
only something is holding her back. She is n't
a bit cruel. I sometimes feel as if I could care
for her in spite of everything. So I don't
want to go against her wishes."

"Well, then," began Janet, "here 's a way
out of it. We will write to you anyway. Miss
Benedict can't forbid us to do that, and you
need n't answer at all – need n't even read
them, if you don't want to. But we 'll write,
nevertheless, and you can't prevent it!"

When Cecily smiled, her face lit up as if
touched by a shaft of sunlight. And she
smiled now.

"I don't believe I ought to read them," she
said; "but, oh! it would keep me from being
so very lonely. But I must be going back
now. I 've been longer than usual. Good-by!"

Cecily was still smiling as she turned away,
while Janet and Marcia stood looking after
her, waving farewell to her as she rounded the
corner.

CHAPTER VIII
AT THE END OF THE STRING

IT was past midnight, that night, before the
two girls could settle themselves for a wink
of sleep. So bewildering had been Cecily's
revelations about herself and Miss Benedict
and the conditions in the mysterious house, that
they found inexhaustible food for discussion
and conjecture.

The most interesting question, of course, was
the absorbing mystery of how Cecily came to
be there at all.

"Why should her mother have sent her
there?" demanded Marcia, for the twentieth
time.

"Perhaps she was a relative," ventured
Janet.

"That 's perfect nonsense," argued Marcia,
"for then Miss Benedict would surely have
acted quiet differently. If she had been the
most distant connection, Miss Benedict would
surely have told her. No, I should say she
might be the child of a friend that Miss Benedict never cared particularly about, and yet
she does n't quite like to send her away. Is n't
it a puzzle? But what do you think of Miss
Benedict being beautiful! I can't imagine
it!"

"And then, too, think of Cecily's not knowing there was another old lady in the house!" added Janet.

"What a darling Cecily is!" exclaimed Marcia, irrelevantly. "If Miss Benedict knew how
sweet and loyal and obedient Cecily is, she 'd be
a little less strict with her, I 'm sure. I suppose she does n't want her to gossip about what
goes on in that queer house. And, by the way,
we must get our string in working order
to-morrow. Let 's send her other things
beside notes, too – things she 'd enjoy."

And until they fell asleep they planned the
campaign for lightening the lonely hours of
the girl next door.

Next day they jointly wrote a long letter, – telling all about themselves, their homes, their
schools, their studies, and any other items they
thought might interest her, – fastened it to the
end of the string, and dropped it into the dark
garden after nightfall. Later they heard
Cecily's light footsteps in the gloom below,
and when they pulled up the string just before
they went to bed, the note was gone.

They heard Cecily's light footsteps

"Well, she 's evidently decided that it would
be all right for her to take it," said Janet; "and
I 'm relieved, even if she does n't answer. I
can see why she might n't think it right to do
that. And now we must plan to send her
something besides, every once in a while. I
should think she 'd just die of lonesomeness in
that old place, and with hardly a thing to do,
either!"

That night they sent her down a little box
of fudge that they had made in the afternoon,
and the next night a book that had captivated
them both. And when they pulled up the
string the evening after, there was the book
again, and in it a tiny note, which ran:

DEAR GIRLS: You are too, too good to me. I
ought not to be writing this. It is wrong, I fear,
but I just cannot sleep until I have thanked you for
the sweets, and this beautiful book. I read it all,
to-day. You are making me very happy. I love
you both.

CECILY.

Meantime, they had seen Miss Benedict go
in and out once or twice, limping slightly, and
had watched her veiled figure with absorbed
interest.

"Who could possibly imagine her as beautiful!" they marveled. And truly, it was an
effort of imagination to connect beauty with
the queer, oddly arrayed little figure.
Also, at various times during each day, Marcia made a point of giving a little violin concert at her window, and, at Janet's suggestion,
had chosen the liveliest and most cheerful music
in her repertoire for sad little Cecily's entertainment.

The two girls likewise exhausted every possibility in the line of small gifts and tiny trifles
to amuse and entertain their young neighbor.
But there was no further communication from
her till one night after they had sent down an
embroidery ring and silks, the latest pattern
of a dainty boudoir-cap, and elaborate instructions how to embroider it. Next night there
was a note on the end of the string when they
drew it up. It read:

How dear of you to send me this! I love to embroider, and had brought no materials with me.
And now I want to ask you a question. Do you
mind what I do with it after it is finished? Is it my
very own? What can I ever do to repay you for all
your kindness!

In their answer they assured her that she
could make any use of the boudoir-cap that
pleased her. And then they spent much time
wondering what use she was going to make of
it.

Two nights later, when they pulled up the
string, they found, to their surprise, a small
parcel attached to the end. It contained a
little box in which lay, wrapped in jeweler's
cotton, a tiny coral pendant in an old-fashioned
gold setting, and a silver bracelet of thin
filigree-work. The pendant was labeled, "For
Marcia, with Cecily's love," and the bracelet,
"For Janet, with love from Cecily."

The two girls gazed at the pathetic little gifts
and sudden tears came into their eyes.

But Janet was wiser. "We must keep
them," she decided. "Cecily does n't want all
the giving to be on one side, and she has probably been longing to do something for us. I
suppose these are the only things she had that
would be suitable. Much as I hate to have her
deprive herself of them, I know she 'd be terribly hurt if we sent them back. To-morrow
we must write her the best letter of thanks we
can."

So the days went by for two or three weeks.
The girls caught, in all this time, not so much
as one glimpse of Cecily, but they managed,
thanks to their "line of communication," to
keep constantly in touch with her. Meantime,
the summer weather waxed hotter and hotter,
and the city fairly steamed under the July sun.
Their own time was taken up by many diversions: trips to the parks, beaches, and zoo;
excursions out of town with Aunt Minerva;
shopping, and quiet sewing or reading in their
pleasant living-room. Every time they went
out of their home on a pleasure-jaunt, they felt
guilty, to think of the lonely little prisoner
cooped up in the dreary house next door,
and both declared they would gladly give up
their places to her, had such a thing been possible.

Then, one night, something unusual occured. They had sent down the usual note,
and also a little work-basket of Indian-woven
sweet-grass, the souvenir of a recent trip to the
seaside. To their astonishment, when they
drew up the string, both note and basket were
still attached. This was the first time such
a thing had happened.

"What can be the matter?" queried Marcia. "Can it be possible that Cecily feels she
must n't do this any more?"

"I did n't hear any footsteps down there
to-night, did you?" said Janet.

"No, come to think of it, I did n't. She
must have stayed indoors for the first time since
we began this. But what do you suppose is
the reason?"

Janet suddenly clutched her friend. "Marcia, can it be possible that Miss Benedict has
discovered what we 've been doing, and won't
let her come out any more?"

"I believe that 's it!" Marcia's voice was
sharp with consternation. "Would n't it be
dreadful, if it 's so?" They sat gloomily thinking it over.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?"
demanded Marcia.

"Wait till to-morrow night and try again,"
counseled Janet. "It 's just possible Cecily
had a headache or felt sick from this abominable heat and could n't come down. Let 's see
what happens to-morrow."

The next night they tied the basket and
another note to the string and dropped it down
hopefully. But they drew it up untouched,
precisely the same as before.

"It 's just one of two things," decided Marcia. "Either Cecily is ill or Miss Benedict has
found out about our little plan and forbidden
Cecily to go on with it. What are we to do?
Keep on sending notes, or stop it? Suppose
Miss Benedict herself should find one sometime."

"I don't care!" cried Janet, decisively. "If
Cecily is ill, she 'll get better pretty soon and
come out some night, and there 'll be nothing
for her. She 'd be dreadfully disappointed. I
don't care if there is the possibility that Miss
Benedict knows all about it. I 'm going to
keep right on writing and take the chance!"

For a whole week they followed their usual
program, nightly sending down a fresh note
that they always later drew up, unclaimed.
And as the days passed they became more and
more alarmed. Something had certainly happened to Cecily. Of that they were sure, and
their misgivings grew more keen with the passing time.

"Can it be that she is n't there any more?"
conjectured Marcia, suddenly, one day. "Perhaps Miss Benedict has sent her away!"

This was a new and startling possibility.
The more they contemplated it, the more
depressed they grew. If that were the case,
then, they might never see Cecily again, and
the delightful and curious friendship would be
ended forever.

Their usual good spirits were quite subdued,
and even their hearty appetites suffered somewhat, which worried Aunt Minerva not a little,
though she attributed it to the heat. Finally,
one night, precisely one week after the first
unclaimed communication, they sent down the
usual letter, begging Cecily, if possible, to let
them know what was the matter. It seemed
to both, during the interval they left it there,
that they heard light, almost stealthy footsteps
in the garden below. But neither felt certain
about it. An hour later they drew up the
string. Their own note was still attached to it
at the bottom, but just above it they saw
fastened a little scrap of paper, no bigger than
a quarter of an ordinary note-sheet. Both
girls started with delight.

"Quick!" cried Marcia. "Cecily has answered at last! Oh, I 'm so glad!"

Janet unfastened it, her fingers trembling
with excitement, and spread it out on the table.

It was not in Cecily's handwriting, and contained but a few words. Both girls read it at
a glance, and then stared into each other's
eyes, half terror-stricken, half amazed. For
this is what it said:

Will you please come to the gate to-morrow morning at half-past nine?

A. BENEDICT.

CHAPTER IX
FOR THE SAKE OF CECILY

"WHATcan it mean?" muttered Janet. "What does she want of us?"

"Why, it 's perfectly plain," declared Marcia. "She has discovered that we have been
trying to correspond with Cecily, and she 's
going to demand an explanation – probably
warn us that we must stop it. Are you –
afraid to go, Janet?"

"Not I! Why should I be? Miss Benedict
can't do or say a thing to harm us! But I
am anxious for poor little Cecily. I just hate
to think we may have brought trouble on
her."

"Oh, I wish now we 'd never suggested such
a thing!" moaned Marcia. "We 've just succeeded in making that poor little thing miserable, I suppose."

"Well, we can only remember that we meant
to make her happy, and we did – for a while,
at least," comforted Janet. "And what 's
more, I 'm not going to worry about it another bit to-night. Maybe it 's something entirely different, anyway."

Marcia, however, could not bring herself to
this cheerful view of things. All night long
she tossed beside the sleeping Janet, wondering and wondering about what the coming interview might mean, and blaming herself a
thousand times for placing Cecily in the position of having deceived her guardian. When
morning came she was pale and heavy-eyed,
which alarmed her aunt not a little.

"You ought not go out this morning, Marcia," remarked Miss Minerva, anxiously. "The sun is very hot, and you look as if you
had a headache."

"Oh, no, I have n't, Aunty!" cried Marcia,
eagerly, fearful of a hitch in their plans. "I
did n't sleep very well, but a walk in the fresh
air will do me good, I know." And so Miss
Minerva saw them go, without further protest.

They both halted at the gate in the brick
wall and looked into each other's eyes. The
hot morning sun beat down upon them as they
stood there, and passers-by eyed them curiously. Each was perfectly certain that the
thumping of her heart could be heard. And
still they stood, hesitating.

It seemed a long, long time before there was
any response. But at last they heard the click
of the opening front door and the sound of
footsteps on the path. This was followed by
the creaking of a key turning in the lock of the
gate. Janet gripped Marcia by the hand, and
with pounding hearts they stood together,
while the gate slowly opened. In another instant, the veiled, black-gowned figure of Miss
Benedict stood before them. She waited a
moment, silent, appearing to look them over
critically.

"Come in, if you please!" she said at last,
very softly, and held the gate open for them.
They entered obediently, and she shut the gate.
It was not until they were inside the house,
standing in the dim hall with the front door
closed behind them, that another word was
spoken. Then Miss Benedict faced them
again, but she did not remove her bonnet or
throw back her veil.

"I have asked you to come here this morning," she began, "because I understand that
you have become acquainted with the child
Cecily Marlowe."

Cold chills ran up and down their spines.
It had come at last! "Yes," faltered Janet,
"we – we have become acquainted with her."

It was not a brilliant reply, but, for the life of
her, she could think of nothing else to say.
They waited, shuddering, for what might be
coming next.

"So she has told me," went on Miss Benedict. "I also understand that lately you have
been dropping notes to her into the garden at night."

Janet noticed, even in the midst of her
trepidation, how wonderfully sweet and soft
and harmonious the voice was.

"Yes," replied Marcia, very low, "we have." The worst was out – now let the blow fall!
They braced themselves to receive it.

"Cecily is ill!" said Miss Benedict, abruptly.

They each uttered a startled little "Oh!"

"She has not been at all well for over a
week," the lovely voice continued. "I am very
much worried about her."

"I hope it is not – and I think it is probably
only the hot weather and – and want of exercise." Miss Benedict hesitated a little over
the last. "She has been so – poorly, and has
– has evidently been so anxious to – to see you,
that I thought I would – surprise her by asking you to come and – visit her a while." It
was plainly a struggle for Miss Benedict to
make this seem the natural, normal thing to
do. "Will you – come up to her room?"

The girls were almost too stunned at the turn
events had taken to reply. "Why – we 'd be
glad to," faltered Marcia, at last.

"Then, if you will follow me – " Miss
Benedict led the way, through the dark halls
and up three pairs of stairs. At the door of
a room on the fourth floor she paused, knocked,
and then entered. They followed, dimly perceiving a little form in the bed, for the shutters, of course, were closed. As they entered
after Miss Benedict Cecily sprang to a sitting
posture, with a cry of mingled wonder, consternation, and joy. She, too, glanced uncertainly at Miss Benedict.

"I have asked your friends to come and –
and see you for a while," she explained hesitatingly to the bewildered child. "Perhaps it will
make you – feel better." Then she turned abruptly and went out of the room, closing the
door after her!

For a moment they stared at one another.

"Cecily!" cried Janet, at length, "what does
this all mean, anyway?"

"I never dreamed of such a thing as seeing
you – here!" faltered the invalid.

"What made her do it?" demanded Marcia. "We found a note from her tied to our string.
How did she know about it?"

Cecily seemed to shrink back at this piece of
news. "I told her, myself," she said. "I was
very sick one night – I think I had a fever.
My head was so hot and ached so. And she
was – oh! so good to me! I could hardly believe it! She bathed my head, and sat by me,
and put her cool hands on my forehead. It
really seemed as if she – cared! And I felt so
ashamed to think I 'd – disobeyed her that I
just told her right out all about it – how lonely
I 'd been, and how good you were to me, and
how I 'd enjoyed hearing from you."

"And what did she say?" breathed Marcia,
in an awe-struck whisper.

"Not a word except, 'Never mind now, little girl!' And she never said a thing more
about it. I did n't dream that she 'd ever do
such a thing as send for you to come and see
me!"

They marveled over it all a moment in silence. Then Marcia burst out: "Oh, Cecily,
we 've been so worried about you! We
could n't think why you did n't even take
the letters any more. Have you been very
ill?"

"Why, I don't know – I just feel horrid
most of the time. My head aches a lot, and
every once in a while I 'm awfully cold, and
then I seem to be burning up – "

"Why, I believe you must have malaria!" interrupted Marcia. "That 's what Aunt
Minerva has sometimes. You ought to go out
more, and have fresh air and – sunshine – "
She stopped suddenly, remembering the conditions. "But anyway, it isn't serious," she
hurried on, after an embarrassed pause.
"And you ought to have some quinine. I
wonder if Miss Benedict would let us get it
for you. I 'll ask her, later." Then they hurried on to tell her how they had continued to
send down a note every night, hoping that she
would get it, and how they had feared that
she might have gone away.

And Cecily, in return, told them how she had
enjoyed the notes and gifts, but how guilty
she had always felt about receiving them, especially when she had answered them.

"And I finished embroidering the boudoir-cap," she ended, "and – and I gave it to Miss
Benedict."

"You did?" they both gasped.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind!" exclaimed
Cecily, hastily; "but – but I felt as if I wanted
to do something for her. She – I – I think
I 'm getting to like her – more and more."

"What did she say?" asked Marcia. "Was
she pleased? I can't imagine her wearing such
a thing."

"She looked at it and then at me – very
strangely for a minute. Then she said:
'Thank you, child. I – I never wear such
things, but I 'll keep it – for your sake!' "

In the pause that followed, the girls glanced
curiously about the darkened room, trying to
realize that they were actually inside the mysterious house at last. It was a large, square
room, furnished with heavy chairs and an old-fashioned bureau and bed. Every shutter was
fastened and the slats tightly closed. Only
the dimmest daylight filtered in. The effect
was gloomy and depressing to the last degree.
They wondered how Cecily had stood it so long.

"I 'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't
open these shutters," cried Janet, suddenly.
"I should think you 'd die of this gloom. It 's
really bad for you, Cecily!"

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Cecily, in consternation. "I asked her once, when I first came,
and she did n't like it at all! She said no, she
preferred to have them shut, and I must not
touch them."

"I don't care!" went on Janet, ruthlessly.
"You were n't sick then. I 'm sure she 'd let
you now!" And, true to her word, she turned
to Miss Benedict, who entered at this moment,
still bonneted and veiled.

"I believe Cecily has malaria, Miss Benedict," she began bravely, but with inward
trepidation.

"Oh, do you think so? Is it serious?" The
melodious voice sounded startled and concerned.

"I don't think it 's so serious," Janet continued, "but she 'd probably get over it quicker if
she had a lot of fresh air and sunshine.
Could n't she have the shutters open? It
would do her lots of good."

Cecily and Marcia trembled at Janet's temerity and watched Miss Benedict with bated
breath. But instead of being annoyed, she
only seemed surprised and relieved.

"Why, do you think so?" she queried.
"Then – surely they may be opened. I – I do
not like the – the glare of so much daylight
myself, but Cecily may have it here, if she
chooses." And following up her words, she
pushed open one of the shutters. A broad
shaft of sunlight streamed in, and, blinking
from the previous gloom, Janet and Marcia
threw open the others.

"I 'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't
open these shutters," cried Janet, suddenly.

Cecily gave a delighted cry, "Oh, how lovely
it is to see the sun again!" But Miss Benedict, with an abrupt exclamation, retreated
hastily from the room.

The girls stayed a few moments more, chatting. Then they wisely suggested that perhaps they had better go, and not tire Cecily by
too long a call. Hearing Miss Benedict's
footstep in the hall below, they took their leave,
promising to come again, as soon as it seemed
best. On the landing of the stairway they
found the black-veiled figure apparently waiting for them.

Now, during all the strange little interview,
a curious impression had been growing upon
Janet, strengthened by every word Miss Benedict had uttered – an impression that here was
no grim, forbidding jailor, such as they had
imagined the mistress of "Benedict's Folly"
to be. Instead, they had encountered a gentle, almost winning, little person, worried about
the illness of the child in her care and plainly
anxious to do everything suggested to make
her more comfortable. Janet suddenly resolved on a bold move.

"Cecily is so lonely," she began, turning to
Miss Benedict. "Don't you think it would do
her lots of good to come in and visit us once in
a while? Marcia's aunt would be so glad to
see her. As soon as she is a little better, can't
she – "

"No," interrupted Miss Benedict, her little
figure suddenly stiffening and a determined
note creeping into her soft voice. "I am
sorry. Cecily cannot make visits. It is out
of the question!"

It was like striking a hidden rock in a
smooth, beautiful sheet of water. And her
words admitted of no argument. Janet and
Marcia followed her meekly and in silence
down to the front door. Here, in an uncertain pause, Marcia made one further suggestion.

"May we bring Cecily some quinine?" she
ventured. "If she has malaria, she ought to
have that. We have lots of it at home."

"It would be very kind of you," replied Miss
Benedict, in an entirely different tone. "Come
to-morrow and see her again – if your aunt will
permit it. Perhaps it would be well to explain
to her – " and here her manner became confused – "that – I – er – do not make calls or –
or receive them, but this is just – just for the
sake of the child." It was plain to the girls
that this admission was wrung from her only
by a great effort. She opened the front door
and followed them to the gate. When she
had unlocked it, Marcia turned to her impulsively.

"Thank you so much for letting us come!
We are very, very fond of Cecily. She is such
a dear, and we 've been terribly worried about
her. As a relative, I 'm afraid you have been
still more anxious."

The black figure started. "She is no relative of mine!" came abruptly from behind the
veil.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, I should say –
friend," stuttered Marcia, embarrassed, "or – or the daughter of a friend, perhaps."

"She is not," Miss Benedict contradicted, in
a strange, flat tone, as if repeating a lesson.
"I do not know who she is – nor why she is
here!"

CHAPTER X
THE FILIGREE BRACELET

AUNT MINERVA took off her silver-rimmed spectacles, wiped them excitedly,
and put them on again.

"And she said she did n't know who the
child was or why she was there? Well – I –
never!" she exclaimed, adjusting them all
awry.

Marcia had decided to tell her aunt all about
it. And Janet had agreed with her that since
Miss Benedict had spoken as she did, there
could be no further occasion for secrecy. So
that night they gave her an entire history of
the affair, and found her a willing listener, interested and sympathetic beyond their wildest
expectations.

"Why, Aunty, I did n't suppose you 'd care
much about it!" exclaimed Marcia, in surprise.
"And here you are, nearly as excited over it as
we 've been."

"Why, who would not be?" said Miss Minerva. "It 's precisely like a mystery in a book.
I was n't interested in the old place at first, because I was too busy and it seemed as if the
people living there were such slack housekeepers. I have n't any sympathy with that.
But what could she mean by that last remark?
Not know who the child is – or why she 's
there! It 's absurd! I can't believe it!"

"Well, that 's what she said!" asserted Marcia, again. "And if any one ever heard of a
bigger mystery, I 'd like to know about it!"

Miss Minerva took up her mending again.
"Then I don't see why she keeps the girl," she
commented.

"She keeps her, I think, because she 's getting sort of fond of her," reasoned Janet. "You can easily see that. Cecily said she was
very good to her the night she was so ill. And
then, too, it must have been a hard pull for her
to go so far as to send for us to come in just
because it might please Cecily."

"We must see that the child has the quinine,
and it would n't hurt her to have a glass or two
of currant jelly. Don't forget them when you
go in to-morrow," Miss Minerva reminded
them. "I 'd like to have her here and nurse
her myself and feed her up a bit. And that 's
another strange thing – why should that
woman" (Miss Minerva invariably alluded to
Miss Benedict as "that woman") "allow you
to go in and visit the child, yet forbid her to
visit you?"

"Don't ask us why," laughed Marcia.
"We 're as much in the dark as any one else.
What I want to know is why did Miss Benedict allow Cecily to open her shutters to-day
when she refused her a while ago. And why
does n't she open them over all the rest of the
house?"

"Well, what I want to know," added Janet,
"is why Cecily's mother should have sent her
over here to the Benedicts' at all, when nobody
knew her or claimed her. Whatever made her
think of such a thing?"

"There are several explanations that might
suit such a case, mused Miss Minerva. "Mrs.
Marlowe might have been a married sister, or
some more distant relative, who – "

"Then would n't Miss Benedict know about
it – or at least suspect some such connection?"
interrupted Marcia.

"That 's true," acknowledged her aunt.
"There must be some other explanation.
What a puzzle!"

"What 's more," added Janet, "I remember
that Cecily told us this: when she first came,
Miss Benedict questioned her all about herself – where she came from, and all that.
And after Cecily had told her she never said
a word, but just walked away, shaking her
head."

Miss Minerva's mind suddenly took a new
turn. "Did n't you say the child sent you a
couple of gifts – little trinkets – not long ago?
I 'd like to see them."

"We 've never worn them," said Marcia.
"It just seemed as if we could n't – she ought
not to have given them away. And yet – I
know just how she felt – she wanted to do
something! I 'll get them." She brought
the box and laid it in her aunt's lap.

Miss Minerva examined the coral pendant
first. "The dear little thing!" she murmured.
"She must think a lot of you to have parted
with this!" Then she laid it down and took
up the bracelet. "Gracious!" she exclaimed
immediately, letting it fall and then picking
it up again. "Am I going crazy, or are my
eyes deceiving me?" She turned it over and
over.

"What's the matter?" cried both girls at
once.

"Matter?" cried Miss Minerva. "Why,
just this: that bracelet is exactly like one I 've
had put away for years!" The girls stared at
her incredulously. "I 'll get it this minute
and prove it!" And she hurried out of the
room.

While she was gone they examined the
bracelet more closely than they had yet done.
It consisted of two thin rims of silver, joined
by silver filigree-work, a quarter of an inch
wide. Here and there, at intervals in the
filigree, and forming part of the pattern,
were several strange characters, looking, as
Marcia declared, like those on the receipt from a Chinese laundry. The workmanship was unusually delicate and beautiful.

In five minutes Miss Minerva was back,
flushed and disheveled, from a hunt through
several bureau-drawers and boxes.

"I could n't find it at first," she panted. "In
Northam I used to be able to lay my hand on
anything I wanted, at an instant's notice, but
in this apartment!" She heaved a resigned
sigh and laid something beside the bracelet on
the table.

It was the exact duplicate – in every last detail! Even the complicated characters were
identical! The three stared at the trinkets in
an expressive silence. Not for a moment
could it be doubted that these two bracelets
were once a pair. They were so unusual that
it was impossible there could be others like
them. This astonishing fact was patent to
them all.

"Aunt Minerva, where did you get yours?"
breathed Marcia, at last.

"Why, that 's easily explained," answered
Miss Brett. "Your father brought it to me
about ten or twelve years ago, after one of his
voyages. He said that a Chinese sailor in
Hong-Kong had offered to sell it to him for
a small sum, and seeing it was a rather unique
little trinket, he bought it and brought it home
to me. I never wear such things, however.
Jewelry never did appeal to me, and bracelets,
particularly, always seemed a nuisance. So
I put it away intending to give it to you some
day, Marcia. And after a while I actually
forgot all about it – till to-night!"

Janet sat up very straight. "There 's just
one thing I 'd give my head to know – this minute! Where did Cecily get her bracelet?"

"Well, that you can easily find out – but I 'm
afraid you 'll have to wait till to-morrow morning!" laughed Marcia.

"There 's something very strange about
this," marveled Miss Minerva, turning the
two trinkets over and over. "Actually, I
can hardly tell now which is mine and which
hers, except that mine is a little more tarnished
from having been laid away. Your father
said, when he gave me mine, that he 'd never
seen anything like it in any of those foreign
jewelry-shops and that was why he 'd been
specially attracted to it."

"Aunty," said Marcia, suddenly, "where do
you suppose that sailor got it?"

"Your father said," replied Miss Minerva,
"that he 'd probably stolen it, or somebody else
had. It may have passed through dozens of
hands after it was taken from the original
owner. You never can tell about such things
in the East, and it 's useless to inquire."

Again they all stared hard at the two silver
trinkets, lying side by side on the table.

"And these two bracelets once belonged to
the same person," murmured Marcia, at last;
"perhaps to some one connected with Cecily.
And to think they should have drifted halfway around the world to find themselves side
by side again in busy, practical New York!"

CHAPTER XI
THE LIFTED VEIL

NEXT morning Marcia and Janet sallied
forth to make their promised visit to
Cecily. They were armed with a box of
quinine pills, two glasses of currant jelly, a
new magazine, Marcia's violin in its case, and,
last, but not least, the two filigree bracelets.
And they were literally bursting with news and
excitement.

Miss Benedict opened the gate for them as
before, and to their inquiries replied that
Cecily seemed a little better. If she noticed
the suppressed excitement in their manner, she
did not comment upon it, but only led the way
to Cecily's room without further words. She
was bonneted and veiled as usual. At the door
she left them, saying she would not go in.

"Cecily, Cecily!" cried Marcia, immediately;
"we have news – such strange news for you!"
Cecily was at once all eagerness and animation.

"Oh, tell me, quickly!" she exclaimed, sitting up in the bed. "I feel so much better.
I 'm going to get up to-day. But how can you
have any news – about me?"

"Cecily," said Janet, sitting down on the
edge of the bed, "have you been thinking, all
this time, that Miss Benedict knew everything
about you, and why you came here, and all
that?"

"Why, of course!" cried Cecily, opening her
eyes wide. "She has never explained it to me,
and she 's so – queer that I never liked to ask
her. But I always thought she knew!"

"Well, she does n't – not a thing, apparently," replied Janet, and then repeated to her
all the strange conversation at the gate on the
day before.

When she had finished, Cecily sat as if
stunned – quiet and rigid and staring out of
the window. So much had it appeared to
affect her that Janet was suddenly sorry she
had said a word about it.

"Then – what does it all mean?" murmured
Cecily, at last. "I 'm here where I 've no right
to be. Nobody knows me – or wants me.
How did it all happen? Don't I belong to
anybody?" She looked so bewildered, so
frightened, so unhappy, that Janet and Marcia both put their arms about her.

"It 's all right, Cecily; it 's sure to be all
right – in the end. We would love you and
want you if nobody else did. And I 'm sure
Miss Benedict must care for you too. She
really acts so. But the question is, how did
you ever come to be sent here at all? Did n't
your mother ever say anything to you about
this place or any of the people over here?"

"No," said Cecily, in a hushed voice. It
was evident from her manner that her grief
over the loss of her mother was very keen, and
she had only once voluntarily referred to it or
to anything connected with it.

"My mother never, never mentioned the
name of Benedict to me, – I never heard of it
before."

"But could n't Miss Benedict possibly have
been some connection – some distant connection that she never thought of or mentioned?"
persisted Marcia.

"No – my mother's people were all English," declared Cecily, "and they were all dead.
We had no relatives living."

"Well, your father, then?" supplemented
Janet. "What about him?"

"I never knew him to remember him.
Mother said he died when I was a baby a year
or two old. He had n't any relatives, either."

"Well, here 's something else we have to tell
you, and it 's the strangest thing yet," began
Janet. "Can you tell us where you got that
bracelet, Cecily, – the one you were so lovely
as to send to us?"

"Why, I always had it," answered Cecily.
"Even when I was a tiny little girl and it was
much too big for me, it seemed to be mine.
Mother kept it in a box, but she let me play
with it once in a while. Then when I was
older and it fitted me better, she let me wear it.
I think she said my father gave it to me. I
don't remember very clearly. I don't believe
I ever thought much about it, although I
realized it was rather unusual. But why do
you ask?"

"Did she ever say it had a mate – that there
was a pair of them?" questioned Marcia.

"Oh, no! I 'm sure she never said anything
about another."

"What do you think of this, then?" Marcia
drew the two bracelets out of her bag, and laid
them side by side on the bed.

"Why, how very, very queer!" cried Cecily,
incredulously." Where did you get the other?"

Marcia outlined its history. "You see, there
is n't a shadow of doubt that there was once
a pair of them," she ended, "and that they both
belonged to the same person. Now who could
that person be?"

"It must have been some one connected with
you, Cecily," added Janet. "Everything
points that way. Well, one thing is certain:
if we could find out the truth about these two
bracelets, I believe we 'd find out about Cecily,
too – why she is here and the whole mystery!"

All three were very silent for a moment,
considering.

"I know one thing," ventured Marcia, at
length. "Cecily, you must not give this bracelet away. It was dear and sweet of you to
think of it in the first place – and we 'll keep
the little coral pendant for both of us if you
like. But the bracelet is something that may
mean a great deal to you yet, and you ought to
have it. Don't you agree with me, Janet?"

"I certainly do," added Janet, heartily; "and
what 's more, I 've thought of something else.
When Captain Brett comes home next time,
he may be able to tell us something more about
the other bracelet. When do you expect him,
Marcia?"

"Not for two or three months," replied Marcia, ruefully. "I 'd give anything if it could
only be sooner. It seems as if we never could
wait that long!"

"Well, let 's not think of it just now," comforted Janet. "I don't suppose we can find
out anything till he does come, so there 's no
use fretting. How would you like to hear
some music, Cecily? Marcia 's brought her
violin."

In the sudden light of the open door she stood
revealed

"How good of you!" cried Cecily, an almost
pathetic eagerness in her voice. "It will be
wonderful to hear it near by!"

So Marcia opened the case and took out the
instrument, tuned it, tucked it lovingly under
her chin, and slipped into a rollicking Hungarian dance by Brahms, while her little
audience listened spellbound.

"Oh, something else, please!" sighed Cecily,
blissfully, when it was ended. And Marcia,
changing the theme, gave them the lullaby
from "Jocelyn," and after that Beethoven's
Minuet in G.

"Just one more," begged Cecily; "that is – if you 're not too tired. The one I – I like so
much!"

"I know – the 'Träumerei,' " nodded Marcia, and once more laid her bow across the
strings.

When the last note had died away, they were
all suddenly startled by a strange sound just
outside the door – a sound that was partly a
sob and partly a half-stifled exclamation.

Before she quite realized what she was doing,
Janet, who happened to be sitting near the
door, sprang up and threw it open.

In the hall outside stood Miss Benedict, her
hands clasped tensely in front of her. But,
strangest of all, her veil was thrown back from
her face, and in the sudden light of the open
door she stood revealed! In an instant they
realized that Cecily had not exaggerated the
beauty of her singularly lovely face. She
plainly had been listening, captivated, to the
music within the room, and something about it
must have stirred her strangely.

All this they noticed in the fraction of a
moment, for, as she saw them, she pulled down
her veil with a hasty movement, murmuring
something about having heard music and coming to see what it was.

But she did not pull it down quickly enough
to hide one fact from the gaze of the two girls
– that her beautiful gray eyes were brimming
with tears!

CHAPTER XII
MISS BENEDICT SPEAKS

IT was Miss Minerva who decided that Miss
Benedict must be told about the coincidence of the two bracelets.

"Certainly, she ought to know!" she declared
positively. "There must be some reason why
that child has been sent to her, and she ought
to be told all the facts concerning her. Who
knows but what she may have some explanation of this bracelet mystery! You tell her
the very next time you go in. And don't forget to take a jar of that quince marmalade,
besides." Aunt Minerva had determined on
keeping Cecily well supplied with toothsome
dainties, which commodities, she keenly suspected, were scarce in the big house. In fact,
the girls had told her that the marketing for
that establishment, so far as they had seen,
seemed to consist mainly of milk and eggs, rice
and prunes!

So a day or two after, when they visited
Cecily again, they planned to have an interview with her guardian. Marcia was shy
about broaching the subject, so the task was
left to Janet, who, being anxious to settle the
matter immediately, began it as soon as the
gate was opened.

"Miss Benedict," she said, "there is something quite strange about Cecily that we should
like to tell you. Could you spare a few
moments to hear about it?"

"Why – er – of course!" replied the little
black-veiled lady, in a rather startled voice.
"Will you – er – that is, I will come to her
room in a little while – if you will kindly close
the shutters – first!" And she directed them
to proceed upstairs, without this time accompanying them.

Cecily was overjoyed at their appearance.
She was sitting by the window, fully dressed,
the sunshine streaming in on her, transforming her curls into a radiant halo. A definite
change had come over her during the last few
days, caused, no doubt, by the enjoyment of
light and sunshine and companionship. She
was losing some of her former wan, wistful,
frightened aspect, and assuming more of the
confiding, sunny characteristics that were
natural to her. At the moment the girls
entered she was reading a magazine brought
by them on their previous visit.

After the first greetings and chat they
reported their conversation with Miss Benedict.

"She 's coming up soon," ended Marcia,
"and we must get the shutters closed. But
what on earth for? Why can't she be like
ordinary people and enjoy the air and sunshine
like the rest of us? Do you know, Cecily?"

"No, I can't imagine. It has all seemed
very strange to me ever since I came. But
you know how odd Miss Benedict is. I can't
abide asking her any questions, and she never
explains anything. The whole house is darkened like this all the time, and since she let me
open my shutters, she 's never once been in this
room in the daytime. She never goes out
without that heavy veil, not even into the
garden. I don't understand it!"

"Do you know," suggested Marcia, half
under her breath, "one would almost think she
had done something wrong and was ashamed
of showing her face in the daylight. I 've
heard of such things. And that would explain
some other queer things about this place, too,
like – "

"Hush!" warned Janet. "I hear her coming."

In another moment Miss Benedict had
opened the door. And in the very dim light
(Marcia had been closing the shutters as they
talked) they saw an unusual sight. Miss
Benedict had come to them without her bonnet and veil!

The change in her appearance was surprising. Her wonderful white hair was piled on
top of her head in a heavy coronet braid. Her
complexion was singularly soft and youthful,
and her lovely gray eyes, even in the dim light,
easily seemed her most attractive feature. It
was a curious contrast made by the removal
of the ugly bonnet and veil. In them she
appeared a little, insignificant, unattractive
personality. Without them, though short and
slight of figure, she possessed a look and manner almost regal.

She did not refer to the omission of her
usual headgear, but took a seat and quietly
asked them what they had to tell her.

Janet undertook to explain, and began by
telling how Cecily had sent the little gift to
them, via the string, and ended by explaining
about Aunt Minerva's duplicate. Miss Benedict listened to it all without comment. When
Janet had finished and held out the two bracelets for her to examine, she merely took them
and laid them in her lap, scarcely glancing
at them. They waited, breathless, for her response.

"No," she said, "I know nothing about these
bracelets. It is, of course, very singular – a
surprising coincidence that your aunt should
have one of them. But I know nothing about
them, any more than I know about Cecily herself." It was the first time she had ever
referred to the matter before Cecily, and it was
evident that it was not easy for her to do so.

"I might as well speak plainly to you all
about this, since the matter has come up. I
did not know little Cecily; I had never heard
of her, nor anything about her before she came
here. I cannot imagine why she was sent. I
have no relatives whose child she could have
been, nor any friend who could have given her
into my care."

"Then why," interrupted Janet, "if you will
pardon me for asking, Miss Benedict, – why
did you take her in the day she came?"

Miss Benedict's manner instantly became a
trifle confused and embarrassed. "It is – er –
a little difficult to explain, I confess," she
stammered. "The truth is – I – er – it is commonly reported that we – that is – I have some
means. I have frequently, in the past years,
received very strange letters from people
utterly unknown to me, – begging letters,
letters proposing to invest my money for me,
– oh! I cannot begin to tell you all the strange
things these letters propose. I understand it
is a not unusual experience – with well-to-do
people. I have even received letters proposing that I adopt the writer's children and
eventually settle my money on them!"

Here Janet and Marcia could not repress a
giggle, and Miss Benedict smiled slightly in
sympathy.

"It does sound absurd," she admitted; "but
it is quite true, and has often been most annoying. So, when the letter arrived announcing
Cecily's coming, for which there was given no
particular explanation, I thought it simply
another case of a similar kind. And I resolved
to dismiss both the child and her attendant as
soon as they appeared.

"But when the day came, strangely enough,
I changed my mind. It was Cecily herself led
me to do so. I felt as soon as I looked at her
that, whoever had sent her here and for whatever purpose, the child herself was innocent of
any fraud or imposture. She believed that I
would receive her, that I knew it was all right.
There was something trusting about her eyes,
her look, her whole manner. I cannot explain
it. And that was not all – there was another
reason.

"I suddenly realized how very lonely I was,
how desirable it would be to have with me a
young companion – like Cecily. I know that
the life I lead is – is different – and peculiar.
It is owing to unusual circumstances that I
cannot explain to you. But I have become so
accustomed to this life that of late years I
scarcely realized it was so – different. But
when I saw Cecily – I felt suddenly – its loneliness."

With the laying aside of her veil, Miss Benedict seemed also to have laid aside some of the
reticence in which she had shrouded herself.
And her three hearers, listening spellbound,
realized how utterly charming she could be – if she allowed herself to be so.

"A great desire seized me," she went on, "to
take her in and keep her with me a while. If,
later, some one came to claim her, well and
good. I would let her go. Or if no one came
and I found I had been mistaken, – that she
was not companionable, – I could make some
other provision for her. Meantime, I would
yield to this new desire and enjoy her presence
– here. In addition to that, the lady in whose
company she had traveled was not in position
to keep Cecily longer with her, and the child
would be left without protection. So I took
her in. And so I have kept her ever since,
because I am daily becoming more – attached
to her."

It was a great admission for this reticent
little lady, and they all realized it. So deeply
were they impressed that none of them could
make any response. Presently Miss Benedict
continued:

"After Cecily had told me her story I
determined to write to the village of Cranby,
England, and find out what I could about her
mother, Mrs. Marlowe. I knew no one to
whom I could address the inquiries, but sent
them on chance to the vicar of the parish
church. In due time I received a reply. It
stated that Mrs. Marlowe was not a native of
that town, but came there to live about twelve
years ago, with her three-year-old daughter.
Nothing was known about her personal affairs
except that her husband and all her people
were dead, and that she had come there from a
distant part of England because the climate of
her former home did not agree with her little
daughter. She never talked much about herself, and lived in a very retired, quiet way.
She left no property or effects of any value.
Why she should have sent her child to me was
as much a mystery as ever. About Cecily's
father the vicar knew nothing. That is all the
information I have."

Miss Benedict stopped abruptly. Cecily
opened her lips to say something, then closed
them again without having spoken. Marcia
fidgeted uneasily in her chair. Miss Benedict
looked down at her lap. An embarrassed
silence seemed to have fallen on them all.
Only Janet, knitting her brows over the puzzle,
was unaware of it.

"But, Miss Benedict," she began, "we all
think that these bracelets may have something
to do with Cecily's affairs – might explain a
good deal of the mystery, if we could only
puzzle them out. Have you noticed what
strange signs there are on them? We think
they must be something in Chinese. Let me
give you a little more light and then you can
see them better." And Janet, deeply immersed in the subject and still unconscious of
her blunder, was about to go and open a shutter, when Miss Benedict quickly raised her
hand.

"Please – er – please do not!" she exclaimed
hurriedly.

"Oh! I beg your pardon – I forgot!" cried
Janet, in confusion, and the silence at once
became more embarrassed than ever. So much
so, in fact, that Miss Benedict evidently felt
impelled to explain her conduct. And she
made the first revelation concerning her singular mode of life.

"I am – er – my eyes are not able to stand it.
For years I have suffered with some obscure
trouble in them. I can see, but I cannot stand
any bright light. It hurts them beyond endurance. At home I must have the rooms
darkened in this way. And when I go out,
even my heavy veil is not sufficient. Behind
it I must also wear smoked spectacles."

She said no more, but she did not need to.
A little inarticulate murmur of sympathy rose
from her listeners. And in the twilight of the
room Marcia glanced quickly and guiltily into
Janet's contrite face.

CHAPTER XIII
VIA WIRELESS

IT was a week after the events of the last
chapter. The girls had gone regularly
every day to visit Cecily. It was Marcia who
had finally mustered up courage to ask Miss
Benedict if Cecily could not go into the garden
and enjoy there some outdoor air and sunshine. Miss Benedict had hesitated at first,
but at last she conceded that Cecily and the
girls might sit in the garden if they would go
out of the house by a small side door and
remain on that side of the house.

They found that this door was on the
opposite side of the house from Cecily's room:
consequently, they had never seen it. And
they soon discovered one reason, at least, why
Miss Benedict wished them to remain exclusively on that side. It was screened both back
and front by thick bushes and trees. And at
the side, above the garden wall, rose the high
blank side of a building, unrelieved by a single
window. Here they were as absolutely
screened from public view as if they were
within the house. Here also was an old rustic
bench and table, and they spent several happy
mornings in the secluded spot, sewing, reading,
and chatting.

Cecily seemed fairly to open out before their
eyes, like a flower-bud expanding in warm,
sunny atmosphere. Only at times now did she
show any trace of the frightened repression
of their earlier acquaintance. They seldom
talked abut the mystery surrounding her,
because they had discovered that any allusion
to it only made her uneasy, unhappy, and
rather silent. Moreover, further discussion of
it was rather useless, as they seemed to have
reached a point in its solution beyond which
progress was hopeless.

So they talked gaily about themselves and
their own affairs, sometimes of their former
home in Northam, the pleasant New England
village. Occasionally Cecily would reciprocate by allowing them glimpses of her life in
the obscure little English town from which she
had come. Only rarely did she allude to the
circumstances of her present home, and though
the girls secretly ached to know more about it,
they were too tactful to ask any questions.

One query, whose answer they could not guess was this: who was the other mysterious
old lady, kept so closely a prisoner in her room
by Miss Benedict? And why was she so kept?
Marcia and Janet were never tired of discussing this question between themselves. That it
was a relative, they could not doubt. And
they recalled one or two remarks Miss Benedict
had dropped, particularly when she had said:
"We – that is – I have some means."

The "we" must certainly have referred to
herself and the other one. But could that
"other one" be mother, sister, aunt, or cousin?
And why was there so much secrecy about her?
Cecily had only said that Miss Benedict referred to her as "the lady in there who is not very well." But why conceal so carefully just
an ordinary invalid?

"You never can tell, though," remarked
Janet, decisively, one night when they had been
discussing the matter with Aunt Minerva.
"Were you ever more stunned, Marcia, than at
the reason she gave for having all the shutters
closed? I think it was the most pitiful thing
I ever heard. I could just have sat and cried
about it. And it was so different from all the
awful things we 'd imagined. Perhaps there
is just as good a reason for this other mystery."

"But what puzzles me," broke in Aunt Minerva, impatiently, "is why that woman, if she 's
so wealthy, does n't go to a good oculist and
have some treatment for her eyes. They can
do such wonders nowadays. Why on earth
does she endure it? I never heard of anything
so silly!"

"I suppose it 's for the same reason that she
would n't have a doctor when she hurt her
ankle," said Marcia. "She evidently does n't
want a stranger in the house, even for such
important things as those."

One day Cecily asked Marcia why she never
brought in her violin since the occasion of the
first visit, and requested that she bring it with
her next day and give them a concert.
So on the following day Marcia came armed
with her violin case and also an interesting new
book from the library that she thought Cecily
would enjoy.

"Let 's read the book first," Cecily elected.
So, sitting in the secluded corner of the garden,
the three spent a happy morning, reading
aloud, turn about, while the others worked at
their embroidery. At last, when all were tired,
Cecily begged Marcia to play, and she laid
her book aside and took up the violin.

"What shall I play?" she asked. "Something lively?"

"No," said Cecily. "Play something soft
and sweet and dreamy. I feel just in that
mood to-day. It 's too hot for lively things."

Marcia played the Liszt "Liebestraum," and
a lovely setting of the old Scotch song "Loch
Lomond," and after that the " Melody in F."
And then, at Cecily's entreating glance, she
drifted, as usual, into the "Träumerei."

"Do you know," said Cecily, when she had
ended, "I believe I must have heard that thing
when I was a baby. It 's the only reason I
can think of that it seems so – so familiar.
And yet – unless I 'd heard it a great, great
many times then, I don't think it would have
made such an impression on me. And where
could I have heard it? Play it again, Marcia,
please."

Marcia obligingly began, but she had gone no
farther than the first few measures when the
door opened and Miss Benedict appeared.
She seemed very much agitated, and her bonnet and veil, donned in an evident hurry, were
slightly awry.

"I beg you," she began, turning to Marcia,
"not to play any more. I – er – it is – is not
because it is not beautiful, but it is – is slightly
disturbing to – some one inside."

"Why, of course I won't, Miss Benedict,"
said Marcia, dropping her bow. "I would n't
have done such a thing if I 'd dreamed it would
disturb any one."

"It is n't – it is n't that I don't love it,"
stammered Miss Benedict, "for I do. But it
seems to be very upsetting to – " She hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, and then
seemed to take a sudden resolution.

" – to my sister!" she ended flutteringly, as
though the simple admission carried something
damaging with it. It required strong self-control for the three girls not to exchange
glances.

"Oh, I hope I have n't done her any harm!" cried Marcia, contritely.

"No – she – it has just made her a little
nervous. She will be all right soon, I trust.
But I noticed that it had the same effect – before," went on Miss Benedict. "I fear I
shall have to ask you not – not to play again in
her hearing. And I am very sorry, both for
Cecily – and myself." And she retreated into
the house again, closing the door softly.

On the way back to luncheon that noon the
girls excitedly discussed the newest turn of
affairs and the newest revelation made by their
strange neighbor. And so absorbed were they
in this fresh interest and so anxious to impart
it to Aunt Minerva that they scarcely noticed
she was laboring under a suppressed excitement quite as great as their own. Indeed, she
paid but scant attention to their recital; and
when they had finished, her only comment was:

"Very odd – very odd indeed. But you
never can guess about the news I have!"

Miss Minerva made no reply, but suddenly
laid a wireless telegram before them. Marcia
snatched it up and read aloud:

"Change of sailing-plan. Will be home in two
days.

"EDWIN BRETT.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" she cried. "Father 's
coming! A whole two months before we expected him! Now we 'll hear something about
the bracelet – and who knows what will happen
after that!"

CHAPTER XIV
THE WRITING ON THE BRACELETS

IN the joy of seeing her father after months
of absence Marcia almost forgot the mystery of Benedict's Folly. Almost – but not
quite!

Captain Brett had been at home twenty-four
hours, and had had time to give an account of
all the intervening weeks, before the subject was broached. Then the next morning, with
a great air of mystery, the two girls and Aunt
Minerva made him sit down and listen to the
entire story. At its conclusion they produced
the two filigree bracelets for his inspection.

"H'm!" he exclaimed, and, whistling softly
under his breath, examined them with minute
care. And then, being a man of few words,
he only remarked: "So you think these were
once a pair?"

"Why, of course!" cried Marcia. "Don't
you?"

"It looks remarkably like it," he conceded.

"Do tell us how you happened to get yours!" she begged.

"There 's nothing much to tell," replied
Captain Brett. "Happened to be in Hong-Kong one day, and a ragged-looking Chinese
sailor thrust this under my nose and whined
that he 'd let me have it for two Mexican dollars. They 're always trying to get rid of
things like this when they want some spare
cash. One never knows where they pick them
up. I did n't want the trinket particularly,
but I saw that it was a unique little piece and
worth probably much more. So I bought it,
tucked it away in my trunk, and forgot it till
I arrived home, when I gave it to you, Minerva.
That 's all I know about it."

"How long ago was that?" asked Janet.

"Must have been at least twelve years ago.
I 'm not sure of the exact year."

"But what do these things mean?" questioned Miss Minerva, pointing to the strange
characters in the silver-work.

"They 're Chinese characters, certainly, but
I don't know what they mean. You see them
on lots of their jewelry and gimcracks – generally mean 'good luck,' or 'happiness,' or some
such motto. Can't say whether these mean
anything of that kind or not."

"But tell me, Father, don't you honestly
believe that if we could get these translated – find out what they mean – it might give us
some clue to the puzzle?" Marcia appealed to
him.

"It might – or it might not," he answered
skeptically. "So many of these characters
might be meaningless, as far as any personal
application was concerned."

"Well, anyway, could we get them translated, just for our own satisfaction?" demanded Marcia.

"Nothing simpler!" smiled Captain Brett. "My boatswain is a Chinese – very learned
man – reads his Confucius in off hours! He 'd
be sure to help you with it."

"Oh, goody! And when can we have it
done?" cried Marcia, aglow with anticipation.

"Well, you 're all coming down to visit the
ship to-morrow. Bring the bracelets along,
and I 'll see that Lee Ching is on hand to give
you his assistance. But – I warn you – don't
count too much on what you may discover from
it! I don't want you to have a bad disappointment."

In spite of which warning, notwithstanding, the girls slept little that night, so excited
were they over the prospect, and, when they
did sleep, dreamed impossible dreams – mainly
of quite unintelligible translations of cryptic
Chinese characters.

The visit to Captain Brett's ship, The Empress of Oran, would have been an event, apart
from any other interest involved in the expedition. Marcia and Janet had never in their
lives been on board of an ocean steamer. Even
the approach to it was fascinating, – the long,
covered wharves with their strange, spicy odors,
the bustle and activity of loading and unloading, the narrow gangways, the dark waist of
the vessel, and the immaculate white paint of
the decks.

They examined every inch of the huge
steamer, from the stoking-room to the donkey-engines on the forecastle deck, and spent half
an hour in the cozy, tiny cabin that was the
captain's own, marveling at the compactness
and handiness of every detail.

When they all went up to the after-deck for
luncheon, which was served under an awning,
Marcia and Janet could scarcely eat for watching the deft, silent, sphinx-like Chinese cook
who waited on them. They tasted strange
dishes that day, some of which, like curry and
rice, were scarcely acceptable to their unaccustomed palates.

"Now," said the captain, in the middle of the
meal, "if we were only out on the China Sea
or bowling along over the Pacific, this would
be just right. You 'd have more of an appetite in that salt air than you do hemmed in by
these noisy docks!"

But it was not the docks that had stolen
away the appetites of Marcia and Janet.
They were boiling with impatience to see the
boatswain, that student of Confucius, who
could, perhaps, throw some new light on their
mystery. Ambrosia and nectar for luncheon
would scarcely have appealed to them under
the circumstances!

At last, however, the meal was ended with
the curious little Chinese nuts whose meat is
almost like a raisin. Then, when the table
was cleared and the captain had lit his cigar,
he spoke the word that caused their hearts to
jump and their eyes to brighten:

"Now I suppose you want to see Lee
Ching!" He beckoned to a sailor and sent
him to find the boatswain.

Lee Ching arrived with promptitude,
saluted his captain, and stood gravely at attention. He was not a young man, and he had a
decidedly Oriental, mask-like face. It seemed
strange that he should be dressed in the conventional boatswain's uniform, with peaked
cap and the whistle of his office. One could
imagine him better in some brilliant-hued,
wide-sleeved Chinese garment, with a long pigtail down his back.

"Lee Ching," said the captain, "these young
ladies are very much interested in these two
bracelets that have come into their possession.
The characters on them, you see, are in your
language. We wonder if you will be so kind
as to translate them for us?"

Lee Ching took the trinkets and examined
them minutely. Presently he asked:

"Will ladies have what say by word of
mouth?" The captain was about to answer
yes, and then changed his mind:

"No. It may be rather important, and we
want to remember it accurately. We would
be obliged if you would write it out."

Lee Ching nodded gravely. "Will captain
permit I retire to cabin?" he requested, and on
being dismissed, he retreated with a formal
bow.

"But can he write English?" cried Marcia,
when he had disappeared.

"Of course he can, better than he can speak
it!" laughed the captain. "English is child's
play compared to that brain-paralyzing language of his! I must say, though, that Lee
Ching is rather unusual – as Chinese sailors go.
He 's studied in the University of Pekin, reads
and writes English well, and never speaks
Pidgin-English. Why he 's spending his life
as boatswain of a trading-steamer I don't
know. He 's fitted for far different things.
But I have an idea it 's on account of his health
that he follows the sea."

The time before Lee Ching's reappearance
seemed to the girls interminable, though, in all
probability, it was not more than fifteen minutes.
At last, however, he returned, laid the bracelets and a slip of paper in the captain's hand,
and was about to retire.

"One moment!" said Captain Brett. "Is
the writing on the two bracelets the same?"

"Words on two bracelets are identical,"
replied Lee Ching, precisely.

"That is all, then, and thank you!" And
the captain dismissed him.

"Words on two bracelets are identical," replied Lee Ching, precisely

"Oh, read it," cried Marcia, "or I shall die
of impatience. and she hung over his shoulder
while he read aloud Lee Ching's queer, angular
handwriting.

"From the maker of melodies to the flower-maiden on the day of their wedding.

"Amoy, Sept 25, 1889."

When he had finished, a blank look crept
over the expectant faces of the two girls.

"Is that all?" cried Janet. And Marcia
exclaimed, "Why, how disappointing! It
does n't tell us a single thing!"

"Wait a minute," said the captain, tugging
thoughtfully at his short mustache, while he
studied the paper, "I 'm not so sure of that!"

CHAPTER XV
PUZZLING IT OUT

"TO begin with," Captain Brett went on
after a long and (to Janet and Marcia) very trying pause, "we 've something to
hold on to in just the date – Sept. 25, 1889 – and Amoy."

"What 's Amoy, anyway?" demanded Marcia.

"It 's a large seaport in the province of
Fu-kien, China, and I 've stopped there many
a time myself. Then there 's the date of this
wedding. Somebody might possibly remember it. There 's just the faintest chance."

"But there are n't any names given," argued
Marcia. "And besides, there must be hundreds of Chinese weddings going on all the
time. I don't believe you could find any one
who could remember just this particular
one!"

"There are one or two things about this you
don't understand, Marcia. First place, I 'm
almost certain this is n't any Chinese wedding
referred to here. The Chinese don't do things
that way. I know a little about their customs.
It 's English or American. You can bank on
that!

"Another thing – about the names. I 'm
pretty sure that this contains both names – at
least the ones the parties went by in China.
You see, the Chinese have no equivalents in
their language for such names as Jones or
Robinson or Brett, for instance. What they
do is to take some characteristic of a person,
and give him a name signifying that characteristic. I strongly suspect that whatever words
in Chinese stand for 'maker of melodies' and
'flower-maiden' are the names the man and
woman were known by there."

"Then," interrupted Janet, who had been
doing some rapid thinking, "the man must
have been some kind of a musician, and the
woman may have loved flowers, or looked like
a flower, or something of that sort."

"I think it extremely likely," agreed the captain.

"Maker of melodies – musician!" cried Marcia, suddenly hopping up from her deck-chair
in excitement. "Does that make you think of
anything?"

The captain and Janet both looked rather
mystified and shook their heads.

"Why, Cecily, of course!" exclaimed Marcia. "Don't you remember how she adores
music – and always seems to be remembering
something about that 'Träumerei'? I 'll warrant – just anything – that these people who
got married were some relation to her! And
besides, did n't she have one of the bracelets?"

"It looks as if you had run down a clue,"
admitted Captain Brett. "But I 'm sorry to
say it does n't help us much in discovering who
these contracting parties were. One point,
however, I think it seems to settle – the question whether the bracelet came into the possession of your little friend in some such manner
as I got the other, or whether it was hers by
right as a family trinket. I believe the latter
– almost beyond question. But now comes
the difficulty. How are we going to unearth
anybody who has any remembrance of – "

Marcia suddenly inspired with an idea, interrupted: "Why not ask Lee Ching? He 's
Chinese. Who knows but what he came from
just that region?"

"Nothing like trying," said the captain. "I
don't know what province he hails from, but it
won't hurt to ask." And he sent a sailor to
summon Lee Ching once more. When he
appeared the captain put his first question:

"Lee Ching, what province did you come
from?"

"Fu-kien," came the answer, promptly, and
the girls' hopes were raised sky-high.

"Did you ever live in Amoy?"

"No, never lived there – always in hills
back beyond."

"Well, do you, by any chance, happen to
know anything about the parties spoken of in
that bracelet translation?"

"No. Was at sea at date mentioned.
Young man then – not very well on dry land.
Must live on ship always – or not live. Never
was acquainted with parties mentioned."

"Thank you. That is all, Lee Ching."

The bright hopes of the girls were considerably dampened, but Marcia was not to be
downed.

"Anyway," she argued, "you 've other
Chinese sailors on board. Why could n't we
question them all? We might find some one
who knows."

The captain was rather dubious about it.
"Yes, the cook and four sailors are Chinese.
You can question them if you like, but I 'm
afraid it won't be much satisfaction. They 're
an appallingly ignorant lot! But I 'll have
them summoned."

In a few moments the five were lined up,
and, true to the captain's estimate, a hopeless-looking lot they were. After much confused
questioning in Pidgin-English it developed
that the cook and two sailors were from the
province of Shansi, a third from Kiang-su, and
the two others from nowhere in particular that
they could seem to remember. None of them
knew anything about Amoy beyond the squalid
shops about the wharves.
The captain dismissed them all with a disgusted wave of his hand and turned to the
girls.

"You see how worse than useless it is to try
and find out anything from such sources! I
knew it would be so, but I did n't want to discourage you. Now you just leave me to myself for half an hour to smoke in peace and do
a little thinking. Go and look at them unloading, or roam around and amuse yourselves in
any way you like. Perhaps, if I rack my
brains hard, something will occur to me."

They left him pacing up and down on the
deck, puffing at his cigar, while they went to
explore the great ship all over again. But the
occupation, though fascinating, failed to keep
their thoughts from the latest phase of the
queer mystery that surrounded Cecily Marlowe.

"Do you know," said Marcia, as they stood
looking down into the well of the vast engine-room, "it seems simply impossible to me to connect lovely, dainty, English Cecily with anything so oriental as China. I can't understand
it. I can't imagine any connection. Can
you?"

"No, I can't," admitted Janet. "And, more
than that, where does Miss Benedict come in
on this Chinese proposition? Nothing could
be less connected with it than she! I believe
she 'd have a fit if she ever saw that awful-looking crowd of Chinese sailors your father
had there a while ago. Did you ever see such
a rascally looking lot? And poor little Cecily
would be horrified!"

"I liked Lee Ching, though. He 's so grave
and serious and dignified. And is n't his
English fascinating? I just love to hear him
talk. But oh, I wish Father had n't sent us
away for half an hour! I can hardly wait for
the time to pass! Let 's go and look at those
men on the dock unloading. Why do they
make such a racket? You 'd think there was
a fire or something!"

So they whiled away the time, and at last,
promptly on the minute, raced back to Captain
Brett.

"Well?" demanded Marcia, breathless. "What now?"

"Just had a happy thought!" The captain
threw the stump of his finished cigar over the
rail. "I 've been trying to think whom I could
remember meeting in China during the past
years – some responsible person who might
know these people or be able to track them
down. Suddenly recalled old Major Goodrich. He was an English military attaché
stationed at Hong-Kong for a while, and I got
to know him rather well. He was retired some
years ago, and the last I heard of him he was
living in this country, somewhere in Pennsylvania, with his only daughter, who happened to
have married an American. If anybody were
likely to know anything about this business it
would be he, for he knew everybody and everything worth knowing about in Amoy at the
time. I 'll look up his address and write to him
to-night. Now I hope that satisfies you both!"

"Father, you 're a trump!" cried Marcia,
blissfully. "I knew you 'd get right to the
bottom of this mystery at once."

"Hold on! Don't count your chickens before they 're hatched!" warned the captain.
"This is only a possibility – not a probability.
The major may know nothing whatever about
it. But look here! it 's high time we were
heading for home. We don't want to be late
to dinner."

They reached the apartment, bursting with
news to tell Aunt Minerva, but were met at
the door by that lady, flushed, flustered, and
very much excited.

"Such a state of affairs!" she cried. "An
hour ago I received a telegram from Cousin
Drusilla in Northam saying she was very ill
indeed and would n't I come up at once, as she
was virtually all alone. Of course I 've got to
go. I can't leave her there sick without a soul
to look after her. But what on earth are you
all going to do?"

"Oh, go right along, Minerva! The girls
and I will get on famously. They can try
their hand at housekeeping, and you 've a good
maid in the kitchen to help. Don't you worry
a minute!"

"Yes, but – " began Aunt Minerva.

"You 've got just fifteen minutes to catch
the Boston express," said the captain, decisively, looking at his watch. "Give me that
suitcase and come right along."

Aunt Minerva, who had really been all
packed and ready for the past twenty-nine
minutes, meekly obeyed.

"I won't be gone more than a few days,"
she remarked, as she kissed the girls good-by.
"I 'll get some one to take my place with
Drusilla just as soon as I can. Don't let Eliza
boil the corn too long, and tell her – " The
sentence was never finished, for the captain at
that point gently but firmly led her into the
hall and closed the door.

And, though the girls suspected it not, this
sudden departure of Aunt Minerva had more
bearing on the mystery they were trying to
solve than any of them dreamed!

CHAPTER XVI
ONE MYSTERY EXPLAINED

MEANTIME, Cecily Marlowe, immured in the lonely house, had been
having an experience all her own. And when
the girls came to see her, the day after the visit
to the ship, she too was bursting with news.
But she quietly waited till they had told their
own tale, and was as puzzled as they about the
strange translation of the characters on the
bracelet. Of anything pertaining to China or
the Chinese she had not the remotest notion,
and could not understand how it could have
any connection with her affairs.

"Now you must hear my story," she began,
when they had discussed the newest development till there was nothing left to discuss.
"It 's about Miss Benedict. She has – but
just wait, and I 'll begin at the beginning. It
was two nights ago, and she had one of those
headaches. She has such very bad ones, you
know. She says they are from her poor eyesight, and she suffers terribly.

"Child, I suppose you wonder very much at
this queer life I lead"

"Well, she had a worse one than usual, and
so she was obliged to call me into her room and
ask me to fetch things for her. I sat by her
and bathed her head and fanned her, and at
last she fell asleep. Even then I did n't go
away, but sat there fanning and fanning her
for a long time, till finally, after a couple of
hours, she woke up.

"She was very much better then, and presently she began to talk to me quite differently
from what she ever had before. First she
asked me if I were contented and happy here.
I said I tried to be, but I was very lonely sometimes. She did n't say much to that, but suddenly she spoke again:

"'Child, I suppose you wonder very much
at this queer life I lead, don't you?' I said,
yes, I could n't help wondering about it. Then
she turned away her head and whispered:

"'Oh, if you only knew, you would not wonder! I have been very unhappy. My life has
been very unhappy!' All I could think of to
answer her was that I was so sorry, and she
need not tell me anything she did n't wish to.
I would never ask about it. And she raised
herself up in bed, and said:

"'That 's just it, dear child. I have always
supposed that young folks were one and all
curious, inquisitive, and thoughtless. That is
one reason I was so – so strict with you – in the
beginning. But you and those two nice girls
next door have been a revelation to me.'

"Well, next she said: 'People think I live
a very singular life, I know. They think I 'm
eccentric – queer – crazy, even! Oh, I know
it! But there are few alive to-day – and none
in this neighborhood – who even guess at the
real reason, who – remember!' And then she
put her hand to her head as if it was aching
badly, and dropped back on the pillow. She
was very quiet for a while, but at last she
looked up again and said: 'Little Cecily,
would you care to have a home with me always?
Would you be willing to put up with my queerness and peculiarities, and some of the strange
conditions here?' And I answered, indeed,
yes; if I could go out once in a while and
visit you girls occasionally, I should very much
like to stay. And she said:

"'Of course you shall, dear. You have been
dreadfully shut in here, but that was before I
knew you so well. ' I was not sure I wanted to
keep you before, but now I know that I do. I
only ask you to be as considerate of me as
you can. Some day, I feel certain, I shall lose
my sight. I know that it is coming. When
it does come, I shall have to depend very, very
much on you. I and one other. You will not
fail me then, will you, Cecily?'

"Girls, I could have cried then and there I felt so sorry for her. And I told her she
could always depend on me, no matter what
happened. I had no other home and no one
else to care for me except you girls. And
after that she told me the story about herself –
at least, some of it. I can't tell it in her words,
so I 'll use my own. But this is it:

"A great many years ago, when this house
was new, she lived here with her father and an
older sister and a younger brother. They
were all very happy together, and the brother
was the pride and joy and hope of the whole
family. But one time he had a violent disagreement with his father (she did n't tell me
what it was about), and she and her sister took
sides with her father against the brother.
After that they had the same disagreement a
great many times, and at last one so bad that
the young man declared he would n't endure
it any longer, and threatened to leave home.

"They did n't believe he was really serious
about it, but the next morning his room was
vacant, and a note pinned to his pillow said
he had gone away never to return. They felt
awfully about it, of course, but that was n't the
worst. About two weeks later they received
word that he had taken passage on a steamer
for Europe, and after only a day or so out he
was discovered to be missing, so he must have
fallen overboard, or been washed over and
drowned. Was n't that frightful?"

Janet and Marcia looked horrified. "What
did she do then?" they whispered.

"That 's the most dreadful part," went on
Cecily. "The shock was so great that the
father died a week afterward – the doctors said
virtually of a broken heart. So there were
two gone, and within a month. The two that
were left, Miss Benedict and her sister, shut
themselves up and went into mourning and saw
almost no one. For a while they were paralyzed with grief. And then, little by little,
very gradually, they began to realize that
people were talking about them – saying
dreadful things. One of the few friends they
did see let drop little hints of the gossip that
was going on outside. People were saying
that they were to blame for it all, and that they
probably were n't so sorry as they pretended
to be, for now they could enjoy all the money
themselves. Can you imagine anything so
horrid?"

"Oh, but that 's nonsense!" interrupted
Janet impatiently. "How could any one say
it was their fault?"

"Well, you know how people talk," replied
Cecily. "They meant that by nagging and
quarreling they had driven the brother away
on purpose, and then made it so unpleasant for
the father that he could n't stand it any longer
either. It was n't said in so many words, but
just little hints and allusions and shrugging
shoulders and all that sort of thing. But the
meaning was there underneath it all, as plain
as anything.

"Their grief and the horrid talk about them
made them feel so very badly that they
determined to live in such a way that no one
could accuse them of enjoying an ill-gotten
fortune. So they shut up the house, – at least
a large part of it, – and dismissed all their
servants, and did most of the work themselves.
After a while the few friends they had began
to drop away, one by one, till no one came to
see them any more.

"And then one day, two or three years later,
the older sister had a paralytic stroke and lost
her memory. She 's been shut up in that room
ever since, and Miss Benedict takes care of her.
She can sit up in a chair and knit, and she likes
to have a chess-board on her lap, and move the
pieces around, because she once loved to play
the game with her younger brother. But she
can't remember anything – not even who she is
herself, and nothing about what has happened.
Miss Benedict feels terribly about her, especially about her not remembering anything,
and she says that is why she did n't tell me
about her at first. It seemed so terrible.

"She says all the friends and relatives they
had are dead and gone now, so no one knows
the real reason for their queer life. And as
the years have passed she has grown more and
more into the habit of living this way till it
seemed quite natural to her – at least it did
till I came; and now she is beginning to realize again that it is queer. And she was so
afraid of gossip and talk that when you first
wanted to be friends with me she would not
allow it, for fear of starting more unpleasant
inquiries into her life."

"But what about her poor eyes?" asked
Janet.

"Oh, yes! About ten years ago she began
to have those terrible pains in her eyes, and
then she had to darken all the house and wear
the veil and dark glasses outdoors. She went
to a doctor about them, but was told that the
case was hopeless unless she had some complicated operation and spent months in a dark
room. This she felt she could n't do on account of her sister, whom she would not leave
to a stranger's care. So she has just suffered
ever since.

"That 's all, girls, except that she told me
her sister's name is Cornelia and that hers is
Alixe. I 'm to call her Miss Alixe after this.
It makes me seem a little nearer to her."

"What a pretty name – Alixe!" commented
Marcia. "It just seems to suit her, somehow. But is n't that the saddest story? It
just goes to show how unhappy we can make
people by talking about them and their affairs."

"And oh! there 's one thing more. Miss
Benedict – I mean Miss Alixe – gave me permission to tell you all this, but she only asks
that you will not repeat it except to your father and aunt. She says she knows you can
be depended on to do this."

That day, before Janet and Marcia left, they
encountered Miss Benedict in the hall. And,
by the way she pressed their hands in saying
good-by they felt that she knew Cecily had
told them her story, though she made no reference to it.

"Cecily may run in and visit you a while to-morrow. I think the change will do her good,"
she remarked at parting. And that was the
only hint she gave of a change in the affairs
of "Benedict's Folly."

When Janet and Marcia were at last outside the gate they gazed up at the forbidding
brick wall and drew a long breath of wonder.

"So that is the story!" breathed Marcia. "What an awful thing – that two people's
lives should be spoiled just by unkind gossip!"

But Janet was thinking of something else. "I wonder why Miss Benedict did n't tell what
the family had the disagreement about!" she
queried.

CHAPTER XVII
MAJOR GOODRICH ASSISTS

DURING the week following Aunt Minerva's departure, the two girls had a
busy life, taking charge of the unaccustomed
tasks of housekeeping.

But with all their absorbing occupations,
the three were waiting on tiptoe of expectation for a reply from Major Goodrich. And
even Captain Brett could scarcely conceal his
impatience as the days went by and no answer
came.

At last one morning the mail-box contained
a letter postmarked from Pennsylvania, and
Marcia carried it upstairs two steps at a time.

It was from the major. He wrote:

Is there any way you can think of to furnish me
with an idea of what the Chinese for that expression,
"maker of melodies," sounds like? The only way
that occurs to me is to see whether, by any faint
chance, Lee Ching could write it in that Romanized
Colloquial, used by the missionaries. That might
give me an idea. It 's a hundred chances to one,
he does n't know it. If so, just spell it out for me
yourself in English – the nearest you can get to it.

The reason I want to know it is this: there was a
young fellow in Hong-Kong at the British military
station, a military aide of promise, who had a magnificent singing voice. Every one went wild over
him there. He was the life of the garrison and in
social circles as well. Many an evening we spent
listening to one of his impromptu recitals. But
what makes me suspect that he may be the one
we're after is that he foolishly went and married
the daughter of a Chinese mandarin from one of the
Hong-Kong yamêns. He had been the means of
rendering the father some very important service,
and met the daughter quite by accident. The whole
affair was a rather remarkable story, but I have n't
time to detail it all to you now.

I saw the girl just once – afterward. She was a
fascinating little creature, with the golden butterfly
pins in her black hair, and her rich silk robe hung
with jewels, and her tiny bound feet. But the
young fellow's family back in England was furious
about it. Eventually, he cut loose from them entirely. Then he and his wife drifted away from the
Hong-Kong region up to Amoy, and finally dropped
out of sight. I imagine he adopted the Chinese customs and habits and got to live at last very much
like a native. I've never heard of him since, but
I 've a notion he could be hunted up if he 's still alive.
His name was Carringford – Jack Carringford, we
used to call him.

The point, however, is that the Chinese called him
by a name of their own, signifying "eminent singer,"
or something of that sort – very much the same kind
of expression as that used on the bracelet. And
after a while we all got to calling him by it – or some
abbreviation of it – pretty regularly. I can't recall
just what it was now, for I have n't thought of it in
years. But I believe I'd recognize it if I saw it
written out in Colloquial or any other English version! Get me that, and I 'll soon put you on the
right track!

Might n't the little girl possibly be the daughter
of Carringford?

"No, she might n't!" interrupted Marcia, indignantly, at this point. "Does Cecily Marlowe look like a Chinese mandarin's daughter's daughter?" And certainly, with her
golden curls and big blue eyes and the English roses in her cheeks, they had to admit that
she did not!

"And besides that," added Janet, "her name
is n't Carringford!"

"That does n't always signify," remarked
the captain. "It looks to me like a rather
clear case if we find that the Chinese name
agrees with the major's recollection of it. I 'd
go down to the ship to-day, but Lee Ching is
on shore leave, and won't be back till to-morrow. I 'll see him then, and find out whether
he knows anything about this Romanized Colloquial. I rather doubt it myself. It 's not
much used outside of the missions, I understand."

"No, it is n't a bit mysterious," answered
Captain Brett. "In order to understand
about it, however, you must know this fact
about the Chinese language. The written
character is the same – means the same – all
over the kingdom. But it is n't pronounced
the same in any of the different provinces. In
fact, the spoken dialects are like entirely different languages. It seems that the dialect of
the Fu-kien province has been reduced to a
written form by the missionaries and called
Romanized Colloquial. It has been in use for
good many years, but it is n't especially recognized by official or diplomatic circles. But
a good many of the Chinese boys who attend
the mission-schools learn it there. It 's just
possible that Lee Ching may have done so, as
he came from that region. We can only wait
and see. If he does n't know it, he may be
able to write out the Chinese equivalent in
some form of English script."

The next day the captain went down to the
Empress of Oran and returned with a beaming
face and a sheet of paper written on by Lee
Ching.

"He knew it all right!" he announced. "Learned it as a boy in the mission-school at
Chiang-chiu. Here 's what he wrote." And
he held the sheet of paper for the girls to see. "He 's put the Chinese characters at one side.
They have to be read from top to bottom, you
know. Next to them is the Romanized Colloquial, and alongside of that the English
translation. Quite a pretty piece of work
that!"

"Gracious!" cried Marcia, frowning over the
queer jargon. "I can't make a thing out of
it – or at least I could n't if he had n't put the
English right alongside of the others. Oh,
this must be the name! – 'chok-gàk ê lâng' –
'maker of melodies.' Did you ever hear of
such heathenish sounds? Well, now we 'll see
what Major Goodrich has to say to that. Father, will you send it right off to him?"

"At once!" announced the captain. "I 'm
just about as anxious as you folks, now, to get
this mystery explained."

But the singular thing was that somehow the
girls could not bring themselves to tell Cecily
much about these latest developments. They
thought it would make her feel strange and
anxious to realize that there was a possibility
of her being in any way related to a Chinese
mandarin's daughter.

"And besides," remarked Janet, suddenly,
when they were discussing it, "that 's perfectly impossible, anyway, because her mother
was English, and Cecily has lived with her
all these years. So this talk about mandarin's daughters and things is perfectly ridiculous!"

"That 's so!" echoed Marcia, in relief. "I
did n't think of it at first. But, anyway, let 's
not tell Cecily about it till we know more. I
do wish Aunt Minerva were here! I have n't
written her about all this because there 's so
much to explain. I 'd rather wait and tell her
when she gets back. She said she was only
going to be gone a little while, and here it 's
nearly two weeks!"

In three days an answer arrived from the
major, and, as luck would have it, Cecily herself brought the letter upstairs with her as she
came in.

"The postman was just going to drop it in
your box," she explained, "and I asked him to
let me take it to you, and save you the trouble
of coming down for it." And she held it out
to the captain.

"Aha!" he cried, as he caught sight of the
writing. "Now we 'll hear some news! Why
– what 's the matter?" He had just glimpsed
Marcia and Janet frantically signaling to him
behind Cecily's back. "Don't you want me to
open it?"

"Oh, not now," explained Marcia, as nonchalantly as she could. "I want Cecily to come
out to the kitchen and help us make some
fudge. Later will do." And she dragged the
wondering Cecily down the hall, while the captain stared after them muttering, "Well! of all
the – "

Cecily stayed rather late that afternoon.
And for the first time in all their acquaintance,
the girls were not sorry to have her go, so wild
with anxiety were they to hear the major's
letter. No sooner had the door closed upon
her than they rushed back to the captain.

"What does he say?" they clamored.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE MAJOR HAS A FURTHER INSPIRATION

THE captain, who was puffing at his pipe,
appeared serious. "I don't like the looks
of this thing at all," he muttered, reaching in
his pocket for the letter.

"But what did he say? Tell us quick!" cried Marcia. "We 've been nearly crazy
there in the kitchen waiting to have Cecily
go so we could hear what he says!"

"Well, I 'm glad she did go first," acknowledged the captain, "for somehow I would n't
care to have her hear just yet what the major
has to say. He thinks – But I 'll read his
letter, and you can understand what I mean.
Here it is:

"About the Chinese name first. The one you sent
does certainly have a familiar sound to me, especially the last two syllables. I distinctly remember
that the name Jack Carringford was called by ended
in e lang, or something that sounded amazingly like
it. I would n't bank on that entirely, however,
for the Chinese language is the most confusing and
idiotic jargon ever invented by the mind of man,
and there might be a dozen other words ending the
same and meaning something entirely different.

"Here 's a fact more to the point, though. Since
writing to you last I 've been busy communicating
with several old chums of the China days. What
I 've been trying to find out is, does any one know
what has become of Carringford? By the third
year after his unfortunate marriage he had pretty
well dropped out of sight. Still, I thought I knew
of one or two who might have kept some track of him
even after that. One of them, Danforth Pettingill,
an old chum of Jack's, is now living in New York,
and I thought he 'd probably know as much as any
one. So I wrote him at the very start, and yesterday received this answer. It seems that Carringford and his wife lived with her father for some time
– till about two years after their marriage, when a
little daughter was born. Then the old mandarin,
who was fearfully annoyed because the baby was not
a boy (girls being of no earthly account in China,
as you know!), made it so unpleasant for the couple
that they finally left his establishment. It was then
that they began their roaming existence, terribly
hampered by the baby, of course, and never remaining long in any city.

"At last, the wife contracted the plague and died
very suddenly, and Carringford was left alone with
the baby on his hands. It was at this time that he
dropped completely out of sight, and Pettingill
never heard from him again. He thinks, however,
from very substantial rumor, that Carringford went
back to England, taking the child with him. He
did n't go to his own folks, though, that 's certain;
for Pettingill has heard from them occasionally, and
they never mention him. There was another rumor
afloat about him for a time, that he had taken to
earning his living by singing at cheap concerts under
an assumed name. All of which might be entirely
likely. But what became of the child, Pettingill
never knew – nor any one else, I'm afraid. Well,
that 's all I 've ascertained up to date, but I 'm still
on the track, and if I hear any further news, I'll
let you know at once."

When the captain stopped reading, all of
them looked very serious, and no one said a
word for several minutes.

"You see," he began at last, "why I don't
like the looks of the thing. This seems to
cover almost all the points we 've been in doubt
about, though of course, it does leave quite a
little to conjecture. I somehow dislike to
think of little Cecily as a mixture of Chinese
and English. In fact, it 's almost impossible
to think of her as such. And yet it seems remarkably near the truth."

"If that man assumed a name," interrupted
Marcia, "I suppose it might as easily be Marlowe as anything else."

"Just as easily," admitted Captain Brett.

"And he went back to England – just where
Cecily came here from," added Janet, lugubriously.

"He may have been dead a good while, or
he may have sent her off somewhere else," answered the captain, dashing this hope. He
would n't be likely to drag a child about in any
such life as he must have had to lead."

They all sank into a depressed silence again.
Suddenly Marcia had another idea.

"But look here!" she exclaimed. "Major
Goodrich says that man was at Hong Kong
and the bracelet says 'Amoy,' as plain as plain
can be. Is n't that enough proof that it can't
be the same one?"

Again the captain had to dampen her hopes. "They might have gone to Amoy to be married," he said. "It 's entirely possible. You
can't tell anything about that."

"And besides," put in Janet, "you got the
bracelet at Hong Kong, did n't you, Captain
Brett? So if it really belonged to those people, it was still pretty near home."

"Well, it is useless to conjecture about these
things," added the captain. "What bothers
me most of all is the question of what earthly
connection all this can have with Miss Benedict. There does n't seem to be the least likelihood that the Carringfords were any relations of hers, and unless Cecily was simply
sent there on a chance, because it was known
that she was a wealthy woman and might be
willing to provide for the child, I 'm quite at
a loss to explain it."

"I wonder if there is any way we could find
out?" mused Marcia.

"I know a very good way," declared Janet. "Simply ask her."

"What? And explain all this strange business about Cecily's parents right away?" demanded Marcia.

"Oh, no! Just ask her if she ever had any
connections in England named Carringford.
She 'll say either yes or no to that. And if she
says yes, why then we 'll know we are on the
right track and can think what to do next."

"Janet's advice is pretty good," asserted
Captain Brett. "And if I were you, I 'd put
the question to Miss Benedict the next time you
see her. It 's about the only way I can think
of now to solve this riddle."

And so it was decided that the very next day,
when the girls expected to go and visit Cecily,
they should ask Miss Benedict the dread question.

Cecily met them at the gate the next afternoon. "Oh, I 'm so glad you 've come!" she
cried. "I 'm really very lonely. Miss Benedict is going to be away all the afternoon because she has some business to attend to. She
says we can sit in the garden."

At this piece of news the girls' faces fell.

"Why, what 's the matter?" questioned
Cecily. "Don't you care to? I thought
you 'd be rather pleased."

"Indeed, it will be fine!" declared Marcia,
striving to hide her disappointment at the news
that Miss Benedict would not be visible that
day. She and Janet had counted so positively
on having one at least, of their vexed questions settled immediately that it was difficult to
feel they must wait two or three days more.
For on the morrow Cecily was to visit them, as
they now spent alternate days in each others'
houses, and the day after, Captain Brett had
promised to take the three of them on a trip
up the Hudson.

All that afternoon, however, Marcia and
Janet were noticeably inattentive and absentminded. Once Marcia, who was reading aloud
to the others, stopped short in the middle of
a sentence, and remained for three whole
minutes gazing off at nothing. And at
this, Cecily could contain her wonder no
longer.

"Girls, are you, by any chance – annoyed at
me?" she ventured. Marcia suddenly dragged
herself back to the affairs of the moment.

"Of course not, deary. How could you
think such a thing?" she declared heartily.

"Then something else is the matter," insisted Cecily. "You are worrying about something. I never knew you to act so strangely.
Now tell me, are n't you?"

Marcia glanced uneasily at Janet. "Well,
yes, we are," she admitted reluctantly. "But
please don't ask us anything about it just yet,
Cecily. Something that has come up lately
seems kind of queer and – and unpleasant.
But it may turn out all right in the end, so
we don't want to tell you till we know positively."

Cecily looked alarmed. "Is it – is it anything about me?" she faltered. "But perhaps
I ought n't to ask." Marcia looked terribly
unhappy at this question, and Janet came to
her rescue.

"Yes, it is, Cecily," she declared with assumed cheerfulness. "Captain Brett has
stumbled across something that seems as if it
might have some connection with your affairs.
But we don't want you to hear about it till we
are positive. Now don't worry about it, because I 'm perfectly certain everything is going to turn out all right. You won't worry,
will you?" She put her arm around Cecily
and laid her cheek against the golden hair.

"No, I 'll try not to," Cecily assured them,
"and I 'll promise not to ask you another thing
about it till you 're ready to tell me yourselves." After that she settled down quietly,
but it was apparent to the girls that, in spite of
her assurances, she was worried and nervous
and unhappy. Presently Janet had an inspiration.

"You two sit here. I 'm going out for a
few moments," she announced, determined to
break the tension of unrest and nervousness by
some diversion. Nor would she reveal to them
what her errand was to be. She returned in
twenty minutes, however, with a box of delicious French ice-cream and some dainty
cakes. And for the next half-hour they had
a gay time in the garden, serving and consuming the welcome treat. In the end they had
temporarily quite forgotten the unhappiness of
the earlier hour, and when they returned home
the two girls left Cecily laughing and cheerful.

Nor did she, all through the ensuing two
days, refer in any way to their conversation in
the garden. If the matter worried her, she
gave no sign, and the girls could not help admiring her self-control.

Three days later, Marcia and Janet went
again to spend the afternoon with Cecily, and
found to their relief that Miss Benedict was at
home. At least, they learned the fact from
Cecily. The lady herself they did not see
when they entered. And indeed, there was a
chance, that they might not have so much as
a glimpse of her during their visit, for it frequently happened that she was not visible during an entire afternoon.

Would she speak to them that day? That
was the question. And, what was even more
important, would they have a chance to speak
to her unobserved by Cecily? For they did
not wish the girl to overhear what they had to
ask, nor even to know that they were seeking
an interview with her guardian.

For the major part of the afternoon it did
not seem as if their wish would be granted.
Miss Benedict did not appear, and so nervous
and anxious were they that they could scarcely
keep their thoughts on the conversation that
Cecily was striving to keep up or, later, on the
book they were reading. Cecily had declared
that her room seemed very warm, so they were
sitting once more in the garden. This also
was a disappointment, for it lessened considerably their chances of seeing the lady of their
hopes.

Half-past five came round, and still they
had not attained their wish. Marcia had just
risen, with a resigned sigh, to propose that they
take their departure, when the side door
opened and Miss Benedict appeared. At the
sight of her the hearts of Marcia and Janet
gave a delighted thump, and they greeted her
with a pleasure, the warmth of which she could
not entirely understand.

But now came the problem of getting
Cecily out of the way for a time. It was evident that she had no intention of leaving them
of her own accord. And it was Marcia's
happy idea that solved this riddle.

"Cecily," she suddenly inquired, "do you
happen to have finished that book I lent you
last week?"

"Oh, yes! I finished it last night. I meant
to return it to-day," said Cecily. "Wait a moment and I 'll get it from my room. You
must be anxious to finish it yourself, I know." And she hurried indoors, unconscious of the
unutterable relief with which they watched her
go. When she was out of sight, Marcia turned
to Miss Benedict.

"Please pardon me for asking a personal
question," she began hurriedly, "but it is only
because we think it is something that concerns
Cecily. Did you ever have, in England or
anywhere, any relatives or – or even friends by
the name of Carringford?" Miss Benedict was
bonneted and veiled as usual, so they could not
see her face. And they would have given
much to have been able to read her expression
when she heard this question.
But she answered, very promptly and positively: "No, I never knew of any one at all
by that name. Why do you ask?"

They could hear Cecily's footsteps returning down the stairs.

"Only because we have discovered something
in connection with people of that name, that
seems to concern Cecily," Marcia explained
hastily. "Sometime we will tell you all about
it. We thought perhaps you 'd know them.
Please – please don't tell Cecily we 've spoken
about it – just yet." Miss Benedict had only
time to signify that she would follow their request, when Cecily appeared in the doorway
and the interview was over.

As they walked home later they both admitted to a feeling of intense relief that Miss
Benedict, at least, knew nothing about any
Carringfords.

"Of course, her not knowing them does n't
prove anything," declared Janet. "But one
thing is certain. If she had known them, it
would have been positive that all this horrid
story is connected with Cecily. But as she
does n't, it gives one more chance that it has
nothing to do with her."

As they entered the hall of the apartment,
the captain called out to them from the living-room:

"Hurry in, girls! There 's another letter
from the major waiting for you!"

CHAPTER XIX
THE UNEXPECTED

THE major's letter did nothing, however,
to lighten the gloom. On the contrary,
it only increased it tenfold. The main substance of it was in this paragraph:

It 's singular how much you can dig out about a
subject, once you put your mind to it. I thought
at first that I had told you all that was known about
Jack Carringford and his affairs – all that could be
discovered. But the deeper I go into it, the more I
seem to unearth. Yesterday another friend to whom
I had written, on the off-chance of getting a little
information (but from whom I really did n't expect
much) sent me this bit of news. It seems he heard
it said that after Carringford went back to England
he married again, and it is thought that he did not
live very long after, – died suddenly of pneumonia,
or something like it, in an obscure town in the north
of England. Perhaps this will help you some in
your amateur detective work. If I glean any more
information, I'll let you know at once. I rather
enjoy this delving into the past.

"Oh, horrors!" exclaimed Marcia. "Could
anything be plainer than this is getting to be?
Of course, that explains it all! Cecily did n't
remember her father, and her 'mother' was
really her stepmother. I wonder if she knows
it. She never mentioned it, but then she seldom speaks of her mother, anyway. Though
I always thought, from the way she acted, that
she was very fond of her."

"It certainly grows more convincing with
every added piece of news we hear," mused the
captain. "I wish we could find some loophole for thinking that this tangle does n't concern Cecily. But how on earth she can have
any Chinese ancestry, beats me. She does n't
show a trace of it. One would certainly think
she 'd have almond eyes and coarse, straight
hair, or a dark complexion, or something!
It 's the one thing that gives me the slightest
hope that she can't be Carringford's daughter."

"But what shall we do now?" questioned
Janet, bringing them back abruptly to the affairs of the moment.

"The first thing to do," declared Captain
Brett, "is to question Cecily about her father
and mother, and see what she knows. She
may recall something that will give us another
clue. If this proves to be the right trail, we 've
got to follow it up, get into communication
with the Carringfords in England, and see if
they will do anything about her. They ought
to be willing to provide for his daughter. But
we 'll have to be very sure of our facts, or
they 'll pay no attention, I suppose. Somehow or other we 'll have to trace out Carringford's career in England after he returned. I
wish I knew the name he assumed, but no one
seems to be able to tell us that."

"But even still, we have n't the slightest clue
to the reason why Cecily was sent to Miss Benedict," mused Marcia.

"Why, yes, we have something new now,"
interrupted Janet. "Has n't it occurred to
you that Mr. Carringford's second wife might
have been some connection of the Benedicts,
or known them, or something?"

"Sure enough! sure enough!" cried the captain, thumping his knee. "This puts the thing
in an entirely new light. We must find out
a little more about that second wife. You get
what you can from Cecily, but do be careful
how you question her. The child is sensitive,
and was apparently very fond of the lady she
called her mother. Try not to probe too
deeply. And remember to explain to her that
you are not asking just out of idle curiosity,
which she 'd be perfectly right in resenting."

It was with no very pleasant anticipations
that Marcia and Janet looked forward to their
interview with Cecily next afternoon. How to
approach the subject without giving her a clue
to the real state of affairs, they were puzzled
to know. Plan after plan they formed, only
to reject after thinking them over. "Suppose
Cecily should ask this," or "What if Cecily
should inquire why we say that?" spoiled every
outline of the conversation that they could imagine. At last Janet declared:

"It 's perfectly useless to think now what
we 'll say, or what she 'll answer. Let 's just
wait till the time comes and say what seems
best at the moment. The whole conversation
may be entirely different from anything we
plan."

"I guess you 're right," sighed Marcia. "I 'm tired out thinking about it, anyhow."
And so they put it all aside till Cecily's arrival.

When she came, that afternoon, she found
two very serious and thoughtful friends awaiting her. One thing at least, they had determined, – not to put off the dreaded interview
till later in the day, but have it over at once
and get it off their minds. So when they were
all comfortably seated in Marcia's cozy room,
Janet began:

"Cecily, would you mind very much if we
asked you a few questions? You remember,
the other day, we said that something had come
up concerning you, we thought, and we would
tell you about it later. Well, we are n't quite
ready to tell you all about it yet, but it would
help a great deal if you 'd answer a few questions about yourself. Will you?" And she
felt an immense sensation of relief, after these
words were spoken, at having at least taken the
first plunge.

"And you 'll remember that we are n't asking just out of curiosity, but because it may
help to untangle your affairs?" interrupted
Marcia, anxiously. Cecily only smiled and
squeezed her hand, as if an answer to that were
unnecessary.

"Well, dear," said Janet, in a hesitating
voice, "could you tell us whether you know
this: was your father ever married twice?"

Cecily started and flushed a little. "Oh, I
– I don't know anything about such a thing!" she murmured. "I – I don't think so. You
see, he died before I remember anything about
him, and my mother never spoke of him to me
very much."

"Then she never told you anything about
that?" went on Janet.

"No," replied Cecily, very positively.

"Now, I have one more question to ask that
I 'm afraid may startle you, but please don't
attach too much importance to it. Was the
lady you called mother your real mother or
your stepmother?"

This time Cecily fairly jumped. "Oh, no,
no!" she cried. "I 'm sure, I 'm very sure she
was my own mother. She would certainly
have told me if she had not been. I would
have known it. Why do you ask?"

"That, you know, is what we can't just explain yet," answered Janet, evidently distressed. "Were you very, very fond of her,
Cecily?"

"Indeed, yes!" replied the puzzled girl. "How could I help but be? She was so lovely
and sweet and good to me, and seemed to live
only for my comfort and happiness. I never
dreamed of such a thing as her not being my
own mother." There were real tears in
Cecily's eyes as she made this declaration.
Marcia and Janet experienced as unpleasant
a sensation as if they had been compelled to
torture a helpless kitten. And yet the task
must be gone through with and there were
further queries to make.

"Do forgive us for all this, Cecily," begged
Marcia. "It hurts us horribly to make you
feel badly. We would n't do it for the world
if there were n't a good reason. But can you
tell us this? Was there anything your mother
ever said or did that would in any way suggest
that she might not be – your own mother?
Think hard, Cecily dear."

The girl sat a long while, chin in hand, staring out of the window at the tightly shuttered
expanse of "Benedict's Folly" opposite. No
one spoke, and the others made a vain pretense
of working hard at their embroidery. But the
hands of both shook so that the stitches were
very, very crooked indeed. At last Cecily
turned to them and spoke in a very subdued
voice:

"These things are making me very unhappy,
but I know you only mean them for my good.
My mother did say one or two things that I
thought nothing of at the time, but now, since
your questions, seem as if they may have another meaning. One was this. We were
looking in the mirror together one time, and
I said how queer it was that I did n't look a
bit like her. I was so fair and light-haired,
and had rosy cheeks, and she was dark and her
eyes were brown and her hair almost black.
She smiled and said:

"'No, it is n't very strange when you
think – ' and then stopped very suddenly and
flushed quite red. And I asked her what she
meant, but she only replied: 'Oh, nothing,
nothing, dear! Children often look very different from their parents, not at all like
them.' And she would n't say any more. I
thought it strange for a while, but soon forgot
all about it. I can't imagine now what she
meant, unless it was – that. The only other
thing I remember is this. I asked her one
time whether, when I was a tiny little baby, I
wore pink or blue bows on my dresses. She
was very busy about something at the time and
she just said, sort of absent-mindedly, 'I don't
know I 'm sure.' And then she added, in a
great hurry, 'Oh, I don't remember! Pink, I
guess.' I thought it strange that she should
forget how she dressed me, for she always had
a very good memory. But I forgot that, too,
very soon. That is all."

Marcia and Janet glanced uneasily at each
other. The information seemed to confirm
their worst apprehensions. But Janet went
on:

"Just one more question, dear, and we 'll
stop this horrid inquisition. Can you tell us
what was your mother's maiden name, the
name of her people?"

"Yes," said Cecily. "It was Treadwell.
But she had n't any people left – they were all
dead, and she was the last one of her family.
But, oh! can't you tell me, girls, why you have
had to ask all these questions? I have waited
so patiently, and I have worried so about it
all. And what you have said to-day has made
me feel worse than ever."

"Dear heart, we don't want to tell you quite,
yet," soothed Marcia. "It would n't do you
any good to know about it till we 're positive
beyond a doubt. It is n't anything so very
terrible, anyhow. Nothing to worry about at
all. But just something we wish might be a
little different. And nothing could possibly
make the least difference in the way we care
for you, anyway, so just don't worry another
bit. Now I 'm going to play for you." And
she drew her violin from its case.

Marcia gave them quite a concert that afternoon, rendering selection after selection to
please them, glad indeed of the diversion and
relief from the unpleasantness of their accomplished task. But she did not play the
"Träumerei," for some reason not very well
defined even to herself, but vaguely connected
with recent disclosures. At last Cecily herself asked for it, and then, of course, Marcia
could not refrain from obliging her. When it
was over, Cecily took her departure, and the
girls, left alone, plunged at once into the discussion of the most recent developments of the
mystery.

That evening Captain Brett and the two
girls held a council of war.

"There 's no denying," he said, "we 've discovered the most important thing yet in learning that name – Treadwell. We 've something to work from now. With that to start
from, I can set on foot some inquiries over in
England that may establish her identity.
And you must ask Miss Benedict (though I
hate to be constantly troubling her in this way)
if she has any recollection of some one by that
name who could possibly have any claim on her.
Do this as soon as possible. We 're certain
to get at the root of the matter very soon
now."

"Do you think," asked Marcia, "that those
remarks of her mother's that Cecily repeated
look as if we were right in believing it to be
her stepmother?"

"It certainly seems so to me," he acknowledged. "Of course, we must remember this.
When you have a suspicion that certain things
are so, every little circumstance and every lightest remark seem to confirm you in that belief.
Often these things have absolutely no bearing
on it whatever, but you think they have, simply
because you fear that they have or want them
to have. So we must n't be misled by chance
remarks. I will admit, however, that these
particular ones seem singularly to bear us out
in our conjectures."

"Well, do let 's get some of these things settled to-morrow," sighed Marcia. "I 'm losing
so much sleep over it that I 'm beginning to
feel like an owl. I just work and worry all
night long it seems to me. Let 's ask Miss
Benedict about the name of Treadwell when
we go there, if we can possibly manage to see
her."

"I 'm sorry to disappoint you about that,"
interrupted the captain. "But I 'm afraid I 'll
have to ask you to remain at home to-morrow.
I 'm due downtown on some errands that will
take me to a number of places. And at the
same time, I 'm expecting an important business message over the telephone. I shall have
to ask you to be here without fail to take the
message for me. I can't trust Eliza to get it
right. So you 'll have to put off your visit for
another day. But don't be too much disappointed, for while I 'm away I shall be making
inquiries as to how we must go about tracing
the name of Treadwell in England. That will
be something accomplished." And with this
consolation the girls had to be content.

"Now," said Janet, next morning, when the
captain had gone and they had resigned themselves to a long day of waiting, "I have a plan
to propose. Let 's not talk or even think a
thing about all this business to-day. If we do,
we 'll only make ourselves more miserable than
we are. I found a perfectly fascinating new
book in the library yesterday. Let 's sit and
read it, turn about, and see if we can't both
finish those centerpieces we 've been working
on so long. We 'll have to work like everything to do it. That ought to keep our minds
off of our troubles. And we 'll telephone for
some French pastry for dessert at luncheon,
and some candy for this afternoon."

The plan seemed to offer pleasant possibilities, and they both settled themselves comfortably in the cool living-room to pass the morning. The book was well begun and the embroidery advancing rapidly, when Eliza came
in with a letter just left in the box, and deposited it on the library table.

"It 's for the captain," she announced, as she
turned away. Marcia jumped up and scrutinized the writing.

"Oh, Janet!" she exclaimed at once; "it 's
from the major!"

"It is?" cried her friend, apprehensively. "Then it 's some more horrid news he 's
unearthed. I 'm certain of it! Not a letter comes from him but it 's something to
worry us more. I just hate the sight of
them!"

"Yes; and what's more," moaned Marcia,
"we can't even know what 's in this one till
Father comes home this evening. Why, I
feel as if I 'd go crazy, having to wait all that
time!"

"Well, you 'll have to wait," commented
Janet, philosophically, "so you might as well
do it as peacefully as you can. Come, let 's
go on with our book."

It was all very well to speak philosophically
about the matter, however, but to act so was
a different affair. Try as they might, they
could not, from that moment, concentrate their
minds on the pleasant program they had
mapped out for themselves. A dozen times
during the morning Marcia would stop reading and glance speculatively at the unopened
letter. A dozen times Janet left her fancywork and strolled over to inspect the superscription anew. The French pastry at luncheon failed to soothe them, and the candy in
the afternoon remained uneaten.

At three o'clock they took to staring out of
the window to watch for the captain's return.
And as they watched they detailed to each
other the various things they surmised might
be in the major's letter. Marcia asserted that
he had probably discovered the second wife's
name to be Treadwell, thus confirming their
worst fears. And Janet declared that he had
no doubt ascertained just why Cecily had been
sent to the Benedict home. Perhaps it was
even to prevent her being sent back to China
to her mandarin grandfather. Nothing they
could imagine was too dreadful to fit into the
scheme of things. By half past five they were
the most miserable pair of girls in the big city.
And at that moment, they heard the captain's
key in the hall door.

"Quick! quick! quick!" they breathlessly
panted at him, explaining nothing, but only
waving the major's letter in his face. Asking
no questions, he took it, slit it open, and glanced
hurriedly through the contents. Then he gave
a long, low whistle.

"Oh, tell us!" groaned Marcia. "What
more that 's quite horrible has he found out?"
For answer the captain sat down and
laughed till the tears stood in his eyes. At
last he managed to gasp: "Well, of all the
dances I 've ever been led, this is the worst
and most foolish! But it 's just like the major.
He always was the most impulsive chap.
You 'll be delighted to know that he 's made
one more discovery – and that is that he has
been 'barking up the wrong tree,' as they say.
Here 's what he writes:

"It occurred to me yesterday, in connection with
this affair, to look up some of the old diaries I used
to keep in the China days. They have been stored
away in the attic in a chest for years, but I got
them out and have been running over them, hoping
to come across an entry that might have some bearing on the matter in question. And, quite to my
chagrin, I did discover this. I will quote it, just
as it stands: To-day Carringford was married according to native customs. None of us invited.

"But here 's the point of departure, so to speak.
This entry was made on March 10, 1890, and you
see it does n't agree at all with the inscription on
your bracelet, which is, I believe, September 25,
1889. So, of course, the only inference that can be
drawn is that they were two separate and distinct
affairs that have absolutely no connection. So
sorry! Anything else I can do for you, I 'll be delighted, etc., etc."

The captain did not finish the remainder of
the letter, for the excellent reason that no one
of his audience was paying the least attention
to it.

When he looked up, at this point, Marcia
was prone on the couch alternately sobbing and
laughing and sobbing again, and Janet was
staring out of the window, blinking hard to
restrain the tears of relief that would insist on
rolling down her cheeks.

And in the midst of this curious state of affairs, who should open the door and walk in
but – Aunt Minerva! Suitcase in hand, she
stared at the three in amazement for a second
till, with a glad cry of recognition, they all
rushed upon her and literally snowed her under with embraces.

"I could n't let you know I was coming, because I did n't know myself till this morning,"
she explained. "Drusilla's sister Ellen came
in unexpectedly from the West, and of course
that relieved me. I just packed up in half an
hour, and here I am. Whatever is the matter
with you all? When I came in you looked as
if you 'd just attended the funeral of your last
friend. I hope Eliza has n't given you all indigestion!"

"We 'll tell you after dinner, Minerva,"
laughed the captain. "It 's a long and complicated tale. My, but we 're glad to see you
again!"

That evening they made her sit down and
listen while they rehearsed the story. It had
to begin with the description of their day on
shipboard, the very day that she had gone
away, and ended with the major's final letter.

She listened to it all very quietly and without any comments whatever, except for an indignant and scornful sniff once in a while.

"Well," demanded Marcia, when it was over
and they were waiting for her to speak, "what
do you think of it?"

"I think," she remarked cryptically, "that
you needed Minerva Brett here to manage this
affair for you. She would have given you a
little better advice than to go off on a wild
goose chase down to Pennsylvania on the
wrong trail!"

They stared at her in open-mouthed amazement.

"You might explain yourself, Minerva,"
mildly suggested the captain.

"I might, but I 'm not going to!" she replied firmly. "At least, not just at present." And with a tantalizing smile, she sweetly bade
them all good night and departed to her room.

"Janet," said Marcia, that night, as she
curled her arms up over her head on the pillow, "is n't it heavenly to go to sleep with that
horrid weight lifted from your mind? We
seem to be just as far as ever from solving the
riddle about Cecily, but at least, the darling
is n't the granddaughter of a mandarin! But,
do you know, I can't help but wonder where
that poor little granddaughter is, and what became of her. She sort of seems like a real person to me now."

"I don't wonder about her, and what 's
more, I don't care," sighed Janet. "As long
as it wasn't Cecily. What 's puzzling me is
how your aunt expects to solve the riddle?
What can she know about it?"

"Well, I don't bother about that," returned
Marcia, "because I 'm glad to let somebody
else have a hand in working at it now. I 'm
content to leave it to Aunt Minerva!"

CHAPTER XX
AUNT MINERVA TAKES COMMAND

FOR an entire week thereafter Aunt Minerva went her own mysterious way, calm
and unruffled herself, but keeping the rest of
her family on tenter-hooks of excitement.

She wrote mysterious letters which she
would allow no one but herself to mail, and
received mysterious replies, the contents of
which she kept a dark secret. They watched
her with the feeling that they were quite outside the game now, and that she had the keys
of the situation entirely in her own hands.
Which was indeed the truth!

At last one day, after receiving a particularly bulky communication, she deigned to
speak.

"Can you carry a message for me to Miss
Benedict?" she inquired of Marcia and Janet.

"Yes!" they replied eagerly, but humbly.

"Ask her if she could possibly grant an interview in her own house to the four of us here –
and one other. It 's very important."

"Oh, Aunt Minerva, you know she never
receives any strangers in the house!" expostulated Marcia.

"I know that, of course. And you told me
the reason, which I quite appreciate. But
there 's bound to come a time, even in her
peculiar experience, when it 's expedient to
break a rule like that. The time has come now,
and you can tell her that I 'm sure she 'll be
very sorry if she does not grant this request.
The matter intimately concerns her, or I would
not dream of intruding on her."

"Well, you may as well tell us what you 've
been concocting, Minerva," interrupted Captain Brett. "You 've kept us in the dark
about long enough, have n't you? And if I 'm
to go in there with the procession, I 'd like to
know a thing or two about where I 'm at,
instead of sitting around like a dummy! And
who is this 'other one' you allude to, anyway?"

Miss Minerva laughed at his impatience. "You may well ask, Edwin! I think you
must have been about as blind as a bat not to
see right along what struck me the very first
minute after you told me what the jig-saw
things on that bracelet meant! As soon as I
heard the word 'Amoy' the idea jumped right
into my mind. About two months ago I heard
a most wonderful address by a Dr. Atwater, a
medical missionary from China, whose headquarters are at the hospital in Amoy. And
you can easily see that I thought of him at
once, when – "

"By Jove!" thundered the captain, striking
his knee with his fist, "what a jolly goose I 've
been not to have thought of the missions there
at once!"

"I should say you were!" commented Miss
Minerva, caustically. "You and the major
together!"

"Well, you see I 've never come in contact
with them much – " began the captain, apologetically.

"Never mind that now," went on Miss Minerva. "I thought of Dr. Atwater right away.
He 's been there many years, and knows something about most every one in the region, I
guess. Anyhow, I decided that I 'd get his
address (he 's in this country on a year's furlough) and write to him about this queer
case. And I did. And he has answered
me – "

"And were you right?" they all interrupted.

"I was so right," she announced triumphantly, "that I 've asked him to come and tell
this story (which he has only outlined in his letter) in full to Miss Benedict. And I want you
all to be there to hear it. And what 's more,
I 'm not going to tell you another word about it
till you hear it from him, so it 's no use to tease
for hints! Go right in and ask Miss Benedict
when she can arrange for this interview – the
sooner, the better!"

It was not an easy matter to persuade Miss
Benedict to grant Aunt Minerva's request.
She was shy and timid about receiving
strangers, and her affection of the eyes, as well
as her curious manner of living, made it hard
for her to do so. She had to acknowledge that
it would be even harder to see them elsewhere.
Nor could she believe that the affair really
concerned her, except very indirectly – through
Cecily, perhaps. It was for Cecily's sake
alone that she at last gave a reluctant consent,
assigning the following Wednesday afternoon
as the appointed time. And the intervening
two days was spent by them all in a restless
fever of expectation – all, at least, except
Aunt Minerva!

On Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Atwater
arrived at the apartment and was taken in
charge at once by Miss Minerva, who guarded
him like a dragon lest a hint of the important
secret should slip out before the appointed
time. He was a tall, angular man with a gray,
Vandyke beard, and his face was grave in
repose. But he talked brightly and interestingly and had the jolliest laugh in the world.
The girls thought him very unlike their preconceived notions of a missionary. He and the
captain fraternized at once, exchanging tales
of the Far East to which Janet and Marcia
listened in absorbed wonder.

But at last Aunt Minerva was ready, and
the "procession" (as the captain insisted on
calling it) filed into the street and proceeded
to the gate of "Benedict's Folly." So unusual
was the sight of the little crowd waiting to
be admitted, where no admittance had been
granted in so many years, that every passer-by
stared at them open-mouthed.

Miss Benedict opened the gate, bonneted
and veiled as usual, and Marcia made the
introductions as best she could, to which Miss
Benedict's replies were murmured so low that
no one could hear them. Then she led the way
to the house and into the darkened parlor,
where they all sat down, with a sensation of
heavy constraint. After that, Cecily came in
and was presented to Dr. Atwater. He
started slightly when he saw her, and looked
into her face long and scrutinizingly in the dim
light.

When Miss Benedict had removed her bonnet and veil Aunt Minerva broke the silence:

"Miss Benedict, I have brought Dr. Atwater
here because I have discovered that he has
something to tell you – something that will be
of intense interest to you. I know this may
seem incredible, but I can only beg that you
will do us the favor to listen."

Miss Benedict inclined her head without
speaking, and Aunt Minerva continued:

"You have heard, I believe, about the curious
incident of the bracelets, but I do not know
whether you have heard about the translation
of the strange characters on them."

Miss Benedict murmured that she had not,
and Miss Minerva explained it as briefly as she
could. Then she went on:

"Dr. Atwater, here, is a medical missionary
from Amoy, and I have found that he not only
knew the owner of the bracelets, but has some
personal recollections about them that we think
will concern you. Will you listen to Dr. Atwater, if you please?"

Miss Benedict again bowed in assent, and
Dr. Atwater began in an easy, conversational
tone :

"Miss Brett has remarked correctly that I
knew the owner of the bracelets, and all about
the characters on them, and a good deal of the
story connected with them. By sheer chance,
or rather, perhaps, I ought to say by very good
reasoning, she has hit on about the only person
living now who does know anything about
them! Here 's the story:

"A good many years ago in Amoy – I was
quite a young doctor then – I was thrown in
with a clever young fellow who had recently
landed there, having come on a sailing-ship
from America. He seemed rather at loose
ends, so to speak, – did n't know the language,
did n't have any money, did n't know what to
do with himself, did n't have any occupation,
and spent most of his time wandering aimlessly
about the town.

"He was a fine, upstanding, straightforward
chap (he said his name was Archibald Ferris),
but he evidently had something on his mind,
for he was gloomy and depressed. It began
to worry me for fear he 'd drift into trouble if
he kept on that way. So I tried to get him
interested in my own work, and invited him
to go around with me on some of my long
tours. We did n't have any hospital then, and
I had to go about from town to town doing my
medical work as I went. He came with me
very gladly, and was of a good deal of assistance, and we grew to be firm friends. But I
realized there was something he was pining for,
and after a long while he confessed to me what
it was.

"He wanted a violin! He adored music,
played well, but had lost or parted from his
instrument in some way. (He did n't explain
that, just then.) Well, a missionary's salary
is n't munificent, so I could n't very well grant
his wish out of my own pocket, much as I
wanted to. The best I could do was to get
him a position in a Chinese tea-exporting house
in Amoy, where he could earn the money himself. It was better for him to be regularly
occupied, anyway.

"After a few months he had saved a sufficient sum, and sent off to Shanghai for his
coveted treasure – he could n't wait to get it
over from America! After it came he was
actually happy – for a while. He was a marvelous musician for his age, I 'll admit, and he
could hold us spellbound an entire evening at
a time with his bow. The natives adored him,
and gave him the name 'Chok-gak ê lâng' or
'maker of melodies.'

"Well, he had the musical temperament, and
after his violin came he could n't stay long in
the tea-house, but got to going about with me
again on my tours – always with his precious
violin. He was really of the greatest assistance, because his music was almost as good as
an anæsthetic in many instances – could calm
the most excitable fever-case I ever came
across.

"It was on one of these tours that he met
young Miss Cecily Marlowe at the English
mission in Sio-khé – "

At this point every one gave a little start of
surprise and looked toward Cecily, who alone
sat gazing, wide-eyed and absorbed, at Dr.
Atwater.

"She was a wonderfully beautiful girl," he
continued, "with a color like English roses in
her cheeks. The Chinese called her 'Flower-maiden,' or 'Hor-lú.' She had but recently
come to the mission from her home in England. Well, it was a case of love at first
sight on both sides! And before many more
months Ferris announced to me that he was
going back into the position at the teahouse and there earn enough money to be able
to marry her. But he also told me that Miss
Marlowe, while very much in love with him,
was still very devoted to her work there and
very earnest about the cause for which she had
left her home and come so far to serve. She
insisted that, if they married, she must still be
allowed to continue in the missionary work.
To this he was perfectly willing to assent.

"So they were married in the English mission at Amoy, and on the wedding-day he gave
her this pair of bracelets which he had had
made after his own design. They were not an
expensive gift, but he was poor, in worldly
goods, and it was the best he could afford.
After the honeymoon they built a little home
on the island of Ko-longsu, right near the city
of Amoy. He went on with his work in the
tea-house, and she with her teaching in the mission-school on the island.

"It seemed an ideal arrangement, and they
were ideally happy for a number of years.
He never advanced very far in the tea-house,
for he loved his music too well and he had no
head for business. But he made enough to
keep them comfortably, and more they did not
want.

"Then about 1898, I think, came a change.
To their great joy a little daughter was born to
them. She was a beautiful baby, and for over
a year there was no happier home in all China.
But one day, when the baby was about a year
and a half old, Ferris came to me and told me
he was in trouble and wanted my advice.

"He began by telling me that the baby
seemed to be drooping and that he himself was
not feeling quite up to the mark. I looked
them both over and found he was right. The
climate was too much for them. It is for many
foreigners sooner or later. I told him they
ought to go home for a year or so and recuperate. He said he could n't – did n't have any
home to go to, in fact. Had long ago quarreled violently with his people, and would never
go back to them. Moreover, he had his wife
and baby to consider. He could n't afford to
give up and lose his position. If he did, what
were they to do?

"I suggested that they go to his wife's
people in England. He said there was difficulty in that direction, too. She had only a
married brother and his wife, and they had not
approved of her giving up all her prospects to
come to China as a missionary. They heard
from them only at long intervals, though
recently, to be sure, they had offered to take
care of the little girl if the time came that she
needed change of air.

"Ferris told me that he and his wife naturally could not bear to consider such a thing,
but on the other hand, the baby's welfare must
be their first consideration. What should I
advise them to do?

"I considered the matter carefully, and at
last told him he 'd better accept the offer to
care for the baby for a year or so. She, at
least, would be provided for, and he and his
wife could then take their chances without
imperiling her future. To follow this advice
nearly broke their hearts, but the next missionaries who went back to England on furlough
took the baby with them, and gave her into the
care of the brother and his wife. It is needless
to say that Cecily Ferris is the same whom we
know as Cecily Marlowe. I would recognize
her anywhere, for she is the image of her
mother." And he looked toward the girl
sitting in the dim light, held by the wonder of
his story. The silence that ensued was broken
first by her.

"Tell me, if you please," she half whispered,
"did my father ever – ever play to me on his
violin? Do you know what he played?"

"Why, I 'm sure he did," smiled Dr. Atwater. "I used to stop at his house early in
the evening sometimes, and I generally found
him fiddling away by the side of your cradle.
Mostly it was an air he called 'Träumerei,' or
something like that. I 'm not very good at
remembering musical names."

"I knew it! – I knew I 'd heard it somewhere, over and over again, when I was little!" she cried. "And yet I never could remember
anything else about it!"

"He used to say it was his favorite,"
remarked Dr. Atwater.

Suddenly Miss Benedict spoke, for the first
time during the recital. There was a tremble
of suppressed excitement in her voice.

"Is that all the story?"

"Oh, no!" resumed Dr. Atwater. "There 's
not much more to tell, but I 'm sorry to say,
the rest is not very cheerful. After the baby's
departure Ferris's health failed perceptibly.
He finally gave up his position, but Mrs. Ferris kept on with her work and nursed him as
well. But the strain of all this began to tell
on her, and at last, in 1900, I advised her to
take a holiday, and go north to Tientsin with
her husband to recuperate. We missionaries
raised enough among ourselves to finance this
little vacation for them. Before he went, however, Ferris had a long talk with me one day,
and confided to me a few things about himself
and his past. To begin with, he said that
Archibald Ferris was not his right name. He
had assumed it at a certain period of his life
because he had broken away from his family,
and did not deem it best that what remained
of that family should ever know he existed.
They probably thought him dead – in fact he
was sure that they did. And his return to
existence, so far as they were concerned, would
simply complicate family affairs. Only his
wife knew who these relatives were. He had
recently, however, sent word to his wife's
brother that should anything ever happen by
which Cecily would be left alone, she should be
sent to America and placed in the care of this
family, whose name he had given them under
the seal of secrecy, if the brother and his wife
were unable or unwilling to provide for her.
He also sent one of the bracelets to England to
be given to his little daughter, requesting that
she be always allowed to keep it. The mother
always wore the other one.

"He was very much depressed that day, and
told me, besides, that his career had been
wrecked in the beginning – that he had
dreamed of being a great violinist, but had
been thwarted in strange ways. However, he
declared that his life in China had been happy
beyond words, except for the unhappy present.
Then he bade me good-by, as he was starting
for Tientsin the next day."

Dr. Atwater stopped abruptly and swallowed hard, as if what he had to tell next came
with an effort. He went on presently. "It
was at the time of the Boxer uprising. Ferris
and his wife had almost reached Tientsin when
the trouble broke out there, and – they were
never seen alive again!" He stopped, and
there was a tense silence in the room.

At last he continued: "I have always
blamed myself for having been the unwitting
cause of their death. I had advised them to
go to Tientsin, though of course I could not
foresee the dark days that were about to come.
I wish with all my soul that I had not done so,
that I had, perhaps, sent them somewhere else,
but it is irrevocable now. There is no use
dwelling on the past.

"Doubtless that is how the other bracelet
came to be cast loose on the Oriental world.
Probably it was stolen at the time, and passed
from hand to hand till it came into the possession of Captain Brett. It is a strange coincidence that brought it back at last to its mate!

"It became my sad duty to notify Mr. Marlowe of the tragedy. In his reply – a frank,
manly letter – he expressed his regret that a
difference of opinion had ever interrupted the
cordiality of his relations with his sister and
her husband, and said that, as he and his wife
already loved little Cecily devotedly, they
would adopt her as their own. They were
reluctant to have her childhood shadowed by
her parents' sorrowful story, and so believed it
best that she should never know that she was
not indeed their daughter, Cecily Marlowe.

"Well, that is the story of the man who
called himself Archibald Ferris," said Dr.
Atwater. He looked about him inquiringly
and added: "I hope that my telling it has
given all the enlightenment that was expected?"

During his long recital every one had sat
with eyes fastened upon him, and no one of his
audience had a thought for the other. Now
that it was over they each drew a long breath
and settled back in their chairs. And then,
for the first time, they noticed the curious conduct of Miss Benedict.

She was sitting far forward in her chair, her
big gray eyes almost starting from her head,
her hands clutching the arms of the chair till
the blue veins stood out. On her forehead
were great beads of perspiration, and she drew
her breath in little gasps. Quite unconscious
of their united gaze, she leaned forward and
touched Dr. Atwater's arm with an imploring
hand.

"Was there – was there no way of – of
ascertaining his real name?" she stammered.

Dr. Atwater looked at her with compassion
in his kindly eyes. "I know of but one thing
that might have served as an identification," he
conceded. "When I was giving him the medical examination, I noticed on his left upper arm
two small initials surrounded by a tiny row of
dots. They were just such a mark as small
boys often tattoo themselves with in indelible
ink, and of course, they are there for life.
Doubtless he had so decorated himself with his
initials in his boyhood days – "

"Oh, what were the initials?" interrupted
Miss Benedict in a stifled voice.

"They were 'S. B.,'" replied Dr. Atwater.
With a little choking cry, Miss Benedict
buried her face in her hands.

"Oh, it can't – it can't be possible!" they
heard her murmur. Then in an instant she
had collected herself and gazed about at them
all, amazement and incredulity in her lovely
eyes.

"My friends," she spoke very quietly, "I
cannot understand what this means. My
brother's name was Sydney Benedict, and I
remember when, as a boy, he had tattooed those
initials on his left arm, as Dr. Atwater has
described them. And he performed wonderfully on the violin, and dreamed only of being
a great artist some day. He longed to go
abroad and study, but my father would not
hear of it. He wished his only son to enter
his business and continue it after him. They
were both high-tempered and had many terrible quarrels about it. I – my sister and I – sided with my father. At last my father
threatened to disinherit Sydney if he did not
accede to his wishes. And on the following
morning – it was his twenty-first birthday – we
found only a note pinned to his pillow, saying
he had gone away forever. He had taken with
him only his violin.

"But," and here she hesitated, gazing around
inquiringly on the company, "I cannot understand what follows. Two weeks later we
received word from a steamer that had just
arrived in Europe from New York, that a
young man named Sydney Benedict had fallen
or jumped overboard one night when they were
two days out, and his loss was not discovered
till next day. Only his violin remained in the cabin. He was certainly lost at sea. I cannot understand – " She suddenly pressed
both hands to her head as if it pained her.

"Wait a moment!" cried Dr. Atwater. "I
believe I can explain that. I should have told
it before, but I quite forgot; there was so much
to tell. He did once confide to me (apropos
of some little adventure we had had together
on one of my trips, when I almost lost my life)
that he too had once had the narrowest kind
of escape from death. He said that on leaving
America he had taken a steamer for Europe,
hoping to find the means to study there. They
had n't passed Sandy Hook, however, before
he became violently seasick, and lay in his
berth like a log for twenty-four hours. On the
second night it became so stiflingly hot in his
cabin that he felt he must get to the deck for
air or die.

"So he struggled out and up the companionway, somehow, meeting no one, for it was very
late. On the deck he crawled in behind a
life-boat, and lay in a rather unprotected outer
portion of the deck, so sick that he scarcely
knew where he was or how dangerous was the
spot he had chosen. All of a sudden the vessel
gave an unusually heavy lurch, and before he
could clutch for any hold he was catapulted
into the sea.

"Curiously enough, the sudden ducking dispelled his horrible sickness, and when he came
to the surface he found himself striking out to
swim. Useless to shout for help from the
great steamer, which had already passed a
boat's length beyond him. But he was a
strong swimmer, the night was warm, and he
resolved not to give up till he had to.

"All night, till dawn, he managed to keep
on the surface, swimming and floating. And
at daylight a sailing-vessel picked him up,
numb and weary, and ready to go to the
bottom at the next stroke. The ship on which
he found himself was bound for China, and of
course he had to 'tag along,' working his passage as a common sailor in return for his keep.
It was then, I suspect, that he made up his
mind to change his name. I think, beyond a
shadow of a doubt, that Archibald Ferris and
Sydney Benedict are one and the same
person!"

At this Aunt Minerva, who had n't spoken a
word since her speech of introduction, put on
her glasses and swept the assembly with a
triumphant gaze. The girls and Captain
Brett were so absorbed that they could not
utter a syllable, and Miss Benedict sat back
in her chair in a stunned silence.

Only Cecily seemed unconscious enough of
the strain to do the natural thing. She rose
from her chair and went over to Miss Benedict,
dropping down on her knees beside her, and
snuggling her head on the older woman's
shoulder with a confiding movement.

"I 'm Cecily Benedict now," she said simply,
"and I – I love you – Aunt Alixe! I 'm glad
there was a good reason why I was sent over
here to you!"

Miss Benedict looked down at the golden
head, and the terrible tension in her face
relaxed.

"Sydney's child! – my little Cecily!" they
heard her murmur.

But they heard no more, for at this point,
Aunt Minerva arose and majestically motioned
the entire company out of the room!

CHAPTER XXI
SIX MONTHS LATER

JANET DEAR:

I know you think I 'm a wretch not to have written in so long! but honestly, things have been happening so fast that I don't have time to sit down and
write you about one event before a brand-new one
has taken place.

I 've missed you horribly ever since you went back
to Northam. It was a shame that you had to leave
just after the grand clear-up of our mystery, for
you 've been missing some of the most wonderful
parts – all the lovely things that have happened
since.

I think I've already written you about some of
the changes that have taken place in "Benedict's
Folly." It 's the most remarkable thing. – the way
Aunt Minerva has taken that place – Miss Benedict and all – completely under her wing! Miss
Benedict (who, by the way, wants us both to call
her Miss Alixe) seemed completely helpless for a
while after the "great day," and turned to Aunt Minerva for pretty nearly everything, – principally advice! You can imagine how Aunt Minerva is enjoying herself! She just loves nothing better than
managing people's affairs for them – if they want
her to!

In the first place, Aunt Minerva advised her to get
the house into livable condition, and find suitable
servants, and get some modern clothes. And as
poor Miss Alixe acted like a lost kitten in going
about it, Aunt Minerva just took hold and managed
the whole thing. And you 'd never recognize our
dilapidated old house of mystery now, it 's so
changed and so lovely. Miss Alixe has decided that
now there is no further reason for her not using
their large fortune, and everything must be the nicest possible – for Cecily's sake.

And Cecily! – what a darling she is! Of course
we are simply inseparable. She has even begun to
go to the high school with me, because Miss Alixe
and Aunt Minerva have decided that it will be better
for her than studying with a private tutor. She is
the happiest thing I ever saw, and says she feels as
if she were living in a fairy-story all the time! We
are just longing for the Easter vacation to come,
and your visit. Then we three can be together
again in the good old way. Won't it be glorious?

But this is all aside from the other two big pieces
of news I wanted to tell you. Almost from the beginning Aunt Minerva has been urging Miss Alixe
to go to a first-class oculist and have her eyes examined. And at last, a few weeks ago, they went
together, and what do you suppose is the result?
He said that almost without a doubt her sight can
be restored, with proper treatment and possibly a
slight operation later. She began the treatment at
once, and already her sight is much improved. She
can stand a stronger light, and has those awful
headaches less frequently. You see, it was years
since she had had any advice about them, and
they 've made great strides in treatment of the eyes
since then. They can almost do the impossible.
We are all so happy about it!

And now for the last and biggest piece of news!
Perhaps you are wondering what has become of Miss
Alixe's mysterious and invisible older sister, and it is
about her that I'm going to tell you. You will
never in the world be able to guess what has happened.

Aunt Minerva insisted (again Aunt Minerva) that
Miss Alixe must have one of the big alienists (that 's
what they call specialists in mental diseases, I've
learned) see Miss Cornelia, the sister, and perhaps
he could tell whether anything could be done for her.
It took a long time to persuade Miss Alixe that there
was any use in doing this, but at last she consented.
I think she has always been very sensitive about that
poor sister's losing her mind, and she never wanted
any one to see her. Even after she had a number
of servants in the house, she would n't let any one
wait on Miss Cornelia but herself.

Well, the great doctor came and was there for
hours and asked a terrific lot of questions – all about
everything that had happened for years and years.
He learned one thing that interested him more than
anything else, he said. Do you remember the day
last summer when we were there, sitting in the garden, and I played on my violin – how Miss Alixe
came down in a great hurry and asked me to stop
because it disturbed her sister? You may remember,
too, that I was playing "Träumerei" – had played
it twice? Well, she told the doctor that when Miss
Cornelia heard that, she acted very much excited,
cried, and twisted her hands and tried to speak.
(She has n't spoken an intelligible word since she
had the "stroke.") Miss Alixe also told him how
their favorite brother had played so much on the
violin, particularly that same air.

He said this was a most hopeful sign – it indicated
that conditions were now such that there was a possibility of her reason and memory and even speech
being restored, provided they could touch just the
right note of association.

After he had thought the matter over a long time
he decided to try an experiment. And he selected
me – little, insignificant me – to help! He had me
come in and bring my violin and sit in the room with
Miss Cornelia, a little behind her, so she would not
notice me particularly. Then he had Miss Alixe
and Cecily also sitting there in plain sight of her,
just quietly sewing or reading and not paying any
particular attention to any one. He and Aunt Minerva stayed outside, watching through the partly
opened door.

It was the first time I had ever seen Miss Cornelia
(except that time when the shutter blew open), and,
Janet, she is magnificent looking – entirely different
from what I had imagined! She is large and stately
and imposing, with white hair like Miss Alixe's, piled
under a lace cap, and great black eyes. She just
sat there quietly knitting, and took no notice of any
one. You would not have known that there was
anything the matter with her, except that her face
was almost expressionless – as if she was n't thinking of anything at all. I can't describe it any other
way.

Well, there we sat, and at a given signal from
the doctor outside the door I was to begin – very,
very quietly and softly – to play the "Träumerei." You can just imagine how nervous I was – so much
depended on my doing just the right thing! My
hands shook, and my knees shook, and my heart
thumped, and I thought I should never be able even
to hold the bow. It seemed an age before the doctor
raised his hand as a signal, but when he did I tucked
the violin under my chin and fairly prayed that I
should n't make a failure of my part, anyway!

And I played the "Träumerei" through, the very
best I could – and nothing happened. Miss Cornelia went right on knitting and never noticed it at
all. Then the doctor made another signal, and I
began it again. This time she laid down her knitting, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against
the back of the chair. And when I 'd finished for
the second time, what do you suppose happened?

She opened her eyes, looked over at Miss Alixe,
and spoke, for the first time in nearly thirty years!
And this is what she said, as simply and quietly as
though all those thirty years had never elapsed:

"Sydney must have come in again; I hear him
practising!"

Miss Alixe was so startled she looked ready to faint
away. But she managed to say, "No, Cornelia, but
I 'll tell you all about it." Then the doctor in great
excitement beckoned us all to come out of the room
quickly and leave her alone with Miss Alixe. So we
vanished, and the two were there together a long,
long time. At last Miss Alixe sent for Cecily, and
she was gone a long time, too.

"Sydney must have come in again; I hear him practising!"

When it was all over, the doctor said it was the
most successful thing that had ever happened in all
his experience. Miss Cornelia is completely restored to memory and speech. And after the first
shock of learning all that had been blank to her for
these past years, she rallied well, and is now resting
and recuperating under the care of Miss Alixe and
a trained nurse. She still finds it very hard to realize all the changes that have happened in those thirty
years, and she grieves a great deal over the death
of her brother, which seems very recent and terrible
to her. But she is simply devoted to Cecily, and
Cecily is growing almost as fond of her as she is of
Miss Alixe. Next summer the whole family is going
with us to spend two months in Northam (Aunt Minerva's
doings again!) because it is so lovely and
restful there. And won't we have a wonderful summer together, Janet dear? I can hardly wait for
the time to come!

Well, that is all the news I have to tell, and I
guess you 'll agree with me that it certainly is
enough – and very satisfying!

One thing amuses me to pieces, Janet, every time
I think of it. Do you remember how, when you first
came to visit us last summer, I was explaining to you
all I 'd discovered about "Benedict's Folly" and flattering myself with the idea that I, or, rather, you
and I, would work out the puzzle and solve the mystery – all by ourselves?

What little geese we were! A lot we did toward
unraveling any of that tangle! Even father and
Major Goodrich were way off the track. It took
Aunt Minerva (the darling!) to walk right in and
clear the whole thing up! Here 's "Hurrah!" then,
for Aunt Minerva! She certainly had the laugh on
us!

However, I sometimes console myself with the
thought that it was we (you and I) who first took
an interest in that shuttered old house in the garden.
If we had n't – who knows? – we would probably
never have met Cecily, and things would be just the
same as ever there, and Miss Alixe would n't have –

But what 's the use of going into all that! The
"girl next door" is our own dearest friend now, and
everything is all right.

I just looked out of the window and saw a light
in Cecily's room. She 's also writing to you to-night. We promised each other we both would.
I 'm growing sleepy now, so good-night and heaps of
love.

MARCIA.

February 28, 1913.

P. S. Did I tell you this before, I wonder? Cecily has both the bracelets now. Aunt Minerva, of
course insisted that she should. She has put them
safely away and will never part with them again.
But we take them out and look at them sometimes
and think of all the strange and awful adventures
they 've been through and the curious chance that
brought them together again.

Always, after we've looked at them, Cecily asks
me to play the "Träumerei." And while I play, she
sits very quietly and says nothing, and her eyes have
a far-away look. But I know what she is thinking
about!